


The Tongue of a Toad

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Troublesome Witness [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance is free from her husband’s house, but her position at court is precarious. This is made all too clear to her when she tries to help another woman trapped in an unhappy marriage. When things escalate, she has no choice but to seek help from the musketeers again – but d’Artagnan is away on a mission, and Aramis is dealing with problems of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Respectability

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the French idiom 'la bave du crapaud n’atteint pas la blanche colombe' - the tongue of a toad does not stain the white dove, or, insults do no harm to the innocent. We'll see about that. 
> 
> Chapter One: Constance makes a friend, then makes an enemy.

Respectability is a strange thing.

Constance walks in the Luxembourg Gardens under a parasol and feels like she’s trailing threads behind her, the invisible residue of gossip; she _knows_ the corridors and kitchens and alcoves of the palace are full of murmurs about her, the way she left her husband’s house, her unusually close friendship with the queen, the fact that she openly goes and drinks in the city with musketeers. Some days it feels like glamour. Some days it feels like being contagious. She’s not sure yet, what sort of day today is.

Most of the court ladies don’t speak to her because she’s of low birth; most of the servants don’t speak to her because she’s on friendly terms with the queen and is too well-dressed to be their equal. The queen’s friendship is something she values highly, but it does make her feel lonely sometimes.

But today is a beautiful day, and when she was Jacques’ wife she could never have spent an afternoon just enjoying the gardens because there was the house to clean and the clothes to mend and the cooking. She does wonder, sometimes, how he is managing without her; and then reprimands herself for caring. Today is a beautiful day, and Constance is free.

 There’s a bench in a shaded grove ahead, and a woman sitting on it very straight and stiff, looking haughty but a little lost. Constance nods politely at her as she passes, and is surprised when the woman looks after her.

 ‘Madame Bonacieux?’

She stops abruptly and looks around, narrowing her eyes and trying to place this woman – pale, thin, and very finely dressed.

‘Have we met?’ she asks, giving up.

‘Not officially,’ says the other woman, not standing up, which makes Constance feel awkwardly as if she’s being sized up. ‘I have seen you at court. They say you left your husband.’

Constance is stunned by her bluntness, and the lazy aristocratic tone makes her skin prickle. There’s no reason she should have to tolerate this, she thinks, and picks up her skirts to walk faster.

‘That’s not strictly true. Good afternoon,’ she bites out, already turning.

The woman stands quickly – she’s several inches shorter than Constance, but she reaches out firmly to take her arm. ‘My apologies; I do not mean to cause offense. Just – you are much talked about. I have been anxious to meet you.’ 

Constance hesitates, still affronted.

‘Come. Walk a turn around the lawns with me and tell me the truth of it, Madame Bonacieux.’ 

‘Call me Constance,’ she says quickly, not because she especially wants to be on intimate terms with this woman, but she certainly doesn’t want to keep hearing her husband’s name. The woman’s face cracks into a sudden, fragile smile.

‘Of course. You must call me Lucille.’

 Something about the smile makes her haughtiness suddenly seem like a thin veneer over twitchy nervousness, and Constance warms to her a little. She has no intention of fuelling the rumour mill, though.

‘It isn’t such an interesting story. You’ll be disappointed.’

It _isn’t_ an interesting story, because Constance has no intention of explaining Jacques’ kidnapping or the mission in the night to rescue him, and even less intention of explaining how d’Artagnan factors into all of this. But she tells her, quite truthfully, that she and her husband both came to the decision that they were better apart, and more or less leaves it at that. Lucille asks her a lot of questions – not just about her husband, about her dress and her favoured cloth merchants in the city and the suburb where she grew up; Constance finds herself chatting quite happily - and it is only as they circle back to the grove where they met that Constance realises she has told her nothing at all in return about her own life and circumstances.

 ‘What about you?’ she asks belatedly. ‘Are you married?’

 Lucille’s back goes rigidly straight for a moment. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, her voice settling into the lazy drawl that put Constance’s back up when they first spoke. ‘My husband is the most successful merchant in Paris. He owns more ships than the king, can you imagine?’

 

*

 

She tells d’Artagnan about the encounter later, watching him bustle around his quarters anxiously packing for a mission out of Paris.

‘You didn’t tell her about me?’ he says thoughtfully, stuffing a spare shirt into the saddlebag on the bed.

Constance pulls it out, folds it, and repacks it. ‘No I didn’t, it’s not her business.’

He grunts agreement, now on his knees to look for his other boot under the table.

‘I liked her, though,’ Constance says. ‘She didn’t look at me like some social-climbing peasant with mud on my face.’

‘No one could think that of you, Constance,’ he says, startled into looking up at her.

She smiles, because he’s always so gallant on her behalf, even though he really doesn’t have a clue about this sort of thing.

‘Oh, really?’ she says wryly. ‘You’d be surprised what some of the court ladies are like.’

He grins and says ‘Would you like me to challenge their husbands to duel?’

‘No thank you, I’ll duel them myself if necessary,’ she tells him firmly, picking up the pistol he’s left on the table next to her and miming a shot. ‘And don’t forget this, you idiot.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ he says, tugging her to her feet.

‘Be careful. Are the others going with you?’

‘No. Porthos is still recovering from that leg injury, and the others are on the palace roster this week. There are six other musketeers going, though.’

Constance tilts her face up for the kiss, and tries not to worry about him.

 

*

 

Lucille runs her fingers along a length of fabric and sighs, avoiding the vendor’s earnest gaze. Her sleeve pulls back a little at the gesture, and Constance notices a vicious bruise, yellowing at the edge, on the side of her wrist.

‘Is your arm alright?’ Constance blurts, taken by surprise. Jerkily, Lucille picks up the swathe of cloth so that it drapes over her hand and wrist.

‘What do you think of this fabric?’ she asks, ignoring Constance’s question.

‘It’s a lovely colour,’ says Constance, because it’s the only thing she can think of.

‘Not my colour,’ Lucille says, a little sharply, pulling her hand back. It’s true – Lucille is pale as a consumptive and that shade will only wash her out.

Constance pretends to look over a stack of dark silks for a few moments, and when she looks up Lucille is watching her nervously.

‘I don’t think my husband would like me spending time with you,’ she says suddenly, and Constance is so wrong-footed it doesn’t even occur to her to be offended.

‘What?’

Lucille stares into the middle distance for a moment. ‘You make me want to be – bold. But I don’t think I’m like you, Constance.’

Taken off guard, _again_ , Constance stares at her and doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t really think of herself as bold. Well – she knows she can be obstinate, and that she has done some things that would seem brave to an outsider, but really it was just all she could do at the time.

At last she says, ‘You can only be bold when there’s something you have to – push against.’

Lucille curls her fingers around her own wrist, now covered again by her sleeve. She sighs. ‘I’m not like you, Constance,’ she says again, and turns her eyes back to the fabrics.

 

*

 

It isn’t because she misses d’Artagnan that she finds reasons to seek out Athos and Aramis while they’re at the palace. She just – happens to be passing. 

‘How’s Porthos?’ she asks, and they smirk at one another.

‘Bored,’ says Aramis. ‘And insisting that he’s perfectly capable of walking on a broken leg. Which is not, in fact, the case.’

‘The captain is keeping an eye on him,’ Athos says, weary with the predictability of musketeers who think they’re invincible.

‘D’Artagnan will have reached Reims by now,’ Aramis says breezily, leaning against the wall.

‘I hope the weather holds for them,’ says Constance, and carefully doesn’t ask if they’ve had any word from him, because she’s determined not to worry about him before there’s a reason to. She casts about for another topic of discussion, and finds herself saying, ‘Is it true there’s a merchant at court who owns more ships than the king?’

They blink at her, confused, and exchange glances. ‘What brought on this interest in shipping, Constance?’ says Aramis, grinning at her.

‘Oh shut up.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I met a woman, and it sounds like her husband is a monster, but I don’t know his name. She told me he’s the most successful merchant in Paris.’

‘What kind of monster?’ Athos says slowly.

She feels herself blushing a bit, because she’d meant to think this through a bit more and ideally to have something more concrete to tell them before she spoke up on this.

‘I don’t know. But he tries to control who she talks to and I _think_ he hurts her.’

They exchange looks again, serious now, she knows they do it as a way of communicating over her head and it only gets more infuriating now that she knows them better.

Aramis steps closer to her, which means he’s going to gently try to tell her something he thinks she won’t like. She folds her arms, waiting.

‘Constance – I know you hate injustice, but…’

‘Do you actually have any proof?’ Athos cuts in, frowning in thought.

‘I’m – fairly sure,’ she hedges.

They look at each other again, and she clears her throat pointedly.

‘A lot of men try to control their wives,’ Athos says, voice very flat. ‘Some men even beat them. It’s appalling – but it is not illegal.’

Aramis glares at him as if he’s being insensitive, and Constance feels her face heating. ‘Who is this woman, Constance?’ he asks, all concern and sincerity, his gaze dark and direct on her face.

‘Her name’s Lucille. I don’t know her husband’s name but –‘ She feels very small and young and silly just now, but she didn’t become the most notorious woman at court by backing out when conversations get awkward. ‘She’s my friend, and I’m worried about her.’

Athos looks like he’s trying quite hard not to sigh. Aramis quirks half a smile. ‘Well, any friend of yours is a friend of ours, Constance. We’ll keep our eyes open.’

 

*

 

It’s two days later when Constance is halted in a palace corridor by a male voice calling her name. She’s expecting Athos or Aramis when she turns, but it’s a tall man she’s never seen before, dressed very ostentatiously in trimmed silk. She bobs a polite curtsey and waits for him to ask for directions or something. He’s standing just a touch closer than she’s really comfortable with, and he inspects her down his nose in the supercilious way that she’s become familiar with since she’s been spending so much time at court.

 ‘Bonacieux. They say your husband is a draper,’ he says, hardly even addressing her, just studying her and talking to himself.

 She takes half a step back and hits the wall.

 ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ she says, trying to duck past his arm.

 He steps into her path. ‘It seems to me you’re in a precarious position here, Madame.’

 She bites her lip, not breaking eye contact, heart hammering painfully against her ribcage. ‘I thank you for your concern, Monsieur.’ And then, because she wants to at least seem like she’s not afraid of him since he’s clearly intimidating her on purpose, ‘We’re not acquainted, Monsieur….’

 ‘I’ve no interest in being acquainted with you. But I warn you, stay out of my business. I’ll not have my wife associated with a woman like you.’

Constance scans the corridor. There are courtiers in hushed conversation several yards away, and servants beyond them bustling about, but nobody is taking the slightest bit of notice. She wonders whether they would intervene if he went beyond spoken threats.

 ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, and is proud of how steady her voice stays.

He sneers at her, and she squares her jaw and doesn’t look away until he does.

He stalks away fast, and she takes a moment to steady herself before following. As she passes the two courtiers she pauses, and they startle a bit and bow, because they’ve been raised to behave in a certain way towards ladies and she is, after all, a friend of the queen. ‘Your pardon, would you tell me the name of that gentleman?’ Constance says, fawningly polite, gesturing delicately at the man’s stiff retreating back.

They bow again, and one of them takes her hand and kisses it. ‘Madame, it would be my pleasure. That is the new-made Comte d’Auverne, since his marriage to the last surviving daughter of that line. Before his marriage, he was Monsieur Boursay of Rue des Mendiants. Were you never acquainted in the city?’

It’s a shallow dig at the fact that Constance herself is not court-born, but for once the courtiers’ endless appetite for gossip is working in her favour.

‘No, indeed,’ she says, smiling. ‘What a fortunate man, to make such a good marriage.’

‘I believe fortune is something of a specialty with the Comte,’ says the courtier slyly, fiddling with his own silk cape, which is rather fine, though less so than Auverne’s -Constance was a seamstress: the court pecking order is always visible to her in the cost of silks and braid edging; if anyone asked she could rank every man and woman in the room by the value of their cloak.

 ‘My thanks, Monsieur,’ says Constance gracefully, curtseying as she withdraws. She hears them start to whisper at her own retreating back as she moves away, but this time, she genuinely doesn’t care.


	2. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A communication failure; a night watch.

She knows the street Lucille lives in, because she walked back this far with her the day they went to the market together. Now that she has a name it’s an easy matter to ask the washerwoman she passes at the corner which is the house of the Comtesse d’Auverne. Constance herself is dressed like she might be the friend of a Comtesse, so the washerwoman curtsies and tells her immediately and humbly, and Constance gives her a coin. It makes Constance feel strange. She’s a seamstress, and the daughter of a printer. Strange turn that her life has taken, for this old woman to curtsey to her like a lady.

Constance is not sure what would be a reasonable pretext to make a house call on a Comtesse, but from what she has seen, aristocrats do not offer explanations of their behaviour to their subordinates. So, when the maid opens the door she only says that she is there to see the Comtesse, and gives her name, and tries to model her look of calm expectation on the one she’s seen on the queen.

Lucille’s sharp voice from upstairs is clearly audible in the echoing hallway, but the maid comes back and curtseys and tells Constance that the Comtesse is not at home. Constance is momentarily wrong-footed. Perhaps she has badly misjudged this. 

‘Perhaps I can wait,’ she says doubtfully. ‘Will she be long?’

The maid shifts her feet. ‘I – don’t know. Madame.’

 Constance frowns at her feet. ‘Perhaps you could give her a message,’ she suggests. The maid shoots a glance up the stairs before she can stop herself, and then stammers agreement.

‘Tell the Comtesse that I… hope she is well.’ She thinks for a moment, and can’t conceive of a way to phrase what she wants to say so that it won’t raise suspicion.

The maid frowns at her, waiting somewhat impatiently.

‘Have you paper and pen? I will write her a message,’ Constance suggests, and the maid looks briefly irritated – gossip is currency in the kitchens and courtyards as much as in the corridors of power – before she recovers herself and goes to fetch them.

 Constance leans over the hall table awkwardly to write, folds the message and hands it to the maid to take up to Lucille. Feeling partly vindicated, she leaves.

 

-/-

 

Later, when she has helped the queen out of her gown and retired to her own bedchamber, Constance is surprised to see a letter left for her on the end of her bed. She flushes with relief that Lucille has responded – that, perhaps, Lucille is willing to let Constance help her

She unfolds the letter, feels increasingly faint as she reads, and has to grip the bedpost to prevent her knees buckling. The missive is forthright in the most distressing way – not, in fact, from Lucille at all but from her husband – detailing in short blunt sentences how easy, if she does not cease her meddling, it would be to discredit Constance by making her whorish behaviour known to the court and the queen, how easy, too, it would be for a gentleman of some standing to teach her a lesson she would feel intimately in her flesh, and for which he would suffer no reprisal whatsoever.

In shock, she realises that to deliver this written threat, Auverne must have been _in_ her chamber, or someone working for him must have been. She feels sick, and the room feels like a trap. She stumbles back out into the corridor. At the far end, at the entrance to the queen’s apartments, there’s a musketeer on duty, and she can tell even from this distance by the nonchalant posture that it’s Aramis.

‘Constance?’ he calls softly. ‘Are you alright?’

When she doesn’t immediately reply he takes a quick glance around before striding towards her.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

She braces herself against the wall with one hand and weakly waves the paper at him; he takes it and reads, his brow tightening angrily. ‘Who would send you such a thing?’ he asks sharply, laying one hand on her shoulder and stooping to look into her eyes.

She doesn’t answer, so he steers her to a bench against the wall and sits her down, crouching in front of her. ‘Was the letter left in your room?’

Constance shivers, forcibly pushing the horrible mental image conjured by Auverne’s threats to the back of her mind. ‘I know who it was. Aramis, I may have done something very foolish.’ She closes a fist around a handful of her skirt, breathing shakily. Aramis is absently stroking her arm, looking angry and very worried.

‘You could do nothing so foolish as to warrant this,’ he says patiently, and she nods, squeezing back tears.

She takes a breath to calm herself and snatches at his free hand tightly. ‘I – you remember I told you about my friend, my – suspicions concerning her husband?’

He nods, frowning.

 ‘I met him. He’s the Comte d’Auverne.’

 Aramis flinches; it’s clear the name is familiar to him. ‘An unpleasant man. He didn’t –‘

‘No. He was rude, but nothing more. Until today I – went to his house. I wanted to speak to Lucille, to tell her that if she’s – suffering, in her marriage… I don’t know, I don’t know what I was thinking. I wanted to – I want to help her.’

‘What happened at his house?’ Aramis asks.

‘Nothing. She wouldn’t see me. I left a note, saying that I was concerned and that I hoped she would tell me, if she needed help. I – but he must have found out. Or found my note.’

‘It seems no reason to send you this disgusting letter,’ Aramis points out; she can see his throat trembling with anger he’s trying not to show.

‘He told me to stay away from her,’ Constance admits. Her voice trembles, and she adds in a whisper, ‘He said he didn’t want his wife associated with a woman like me.’

 Aramis squeezes her hand. ‘There are no women like you, Constance. You are one of a kind.’

 The flattery rather misses the point, but it does make her laugh brokenly through the tears she’s trying not to shed. She’s about to tell him the rest when they’re interrupted by heavy footsteps and she jolts in shock.

 ‘Shirking your duty to sweet-talk the queen’s ladies, musketeer?’

It’s a pair of Red Guards, having just turned the corner to find Aramis not at his post, grinning at them nastily. Aramis sighs angrily and gets to his feet. ‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘I am responsible for the safety of all the inhabitants of this wing tonight. Which rather begs the question of what _you_ are doing here.’

‘Doing the job you’re too busy whoring to do properly,’ snaps the guard. ‘Musketeers can’t be trusted with any serious work, everyone knows that.’

‘Indeed,’ Aramis sighs. ‘Get back to your patrol, gentlemen, before you disturb Her Majesty. As you know, she has made it clear that her safety is not to be left to the Red Guard.’

The guard flushes at that, which, Constance thinks, must mean that it’s true. The queen has told her herself that she finds many of the Cardinal’s men rude and uncouth. This one proves his lack of manners by spitting on the floor in front of Aramis and telling him, ‘Fuck you, musketeer. You’re not even fucking French.’

Aramis raises an eyebrow. ‘Take it up with Captain Treville,’ he says mildly, and lays a hand very deliberately on his sword hilt. The Red Guards swear at him again before retreating, and he watches them until they’re out of sight before turning back to Constance. 

‘What are they doing here?’ she asks.

‘They’re meant to patrol outside; the rain drove them in. Like rats,’ he adds scornfully. He drops onto the bench beside her as though suddenly weary, and rubs both hands over his face. Constance, more to distract herself from the letter still burned into her vision than anything, touches his arm gently.

 ‘What does he mean, you’re not French?’

‘Of course I’m French,’ he replies, a little too quickly, almost defensively, and Constance regrets asking the question. She wants to show him that it wouldn’t matter to her if he weren’t, but she can’t think of a way to say it so she just presses harder on his arm until he gives her a sharp sideways look, and then relaxes with a sigh. ‘Sorry. I – my mother was Spanish; I sometimes use her language without thinking. It has become an obsession with the Red Guard that I am a Spanish spy in some elaborate plot against the king.’

Constance blinks – she’s heard him speak Spanish once or twice, but it’s never occurred to her to wonder where it comes from. ‘Have they – caused trouble for you?’ she asks gently.

 He smiles thinly. ‘Captain Treville has sworn that the next man to propose this theory to him will be flogged for wasting his time.’

 She returns the smile, a little strained. ‘The queen speaks Spanish, sometimes. When she’s distracted.’

Aramis’ expression, staring into space, is caught somewhere between affection and pain. Constance shuffles closer to him on the bench. ‘I think she misses her mother tongue. I think she’d like the chance to speak it more often. 

He swallows tightly; there’s still something pained in his eyes that Constance doesn’t understand. ‘It’s not always a good idea to speak Spanish in the French court,’ he says dully.

 ‘But in private,’ Constance presses. ‘Perhaps – you could teach me some Spanish, and I could speak it with her. With both of you.’

 He shudders in surprise, and when he looks at her his expression is gentle and more vulnerable than she’s used to from him. He quirks half a smile. ‘Perhaps,’ he says eventually. He blinks, after a moment, and the raw look disappears. ‘We’ve digressed. Your trouble is far more pressing.’ He picks up the letter again, frowning as he re-reads the words.

‘There’s nothing we can do about my “trouble,” if he’s as important as everyone says. It’s true what he’s written – no accusation I could make would mean anything.’ Constance kicks at the carpet bitterly. ‘Even if I’m right, Athos said it’s not against the law for a man to beat his wife.’

Aramis puts the letter down as if the sight of it is making him feel sick. ‘Well – yes,’ he says carefully, and Constance looks at him, because she knows him well enough now to hear the hesitation.

 ‘But?’ she prompts.

‘If her family were influential enough, it would still be embarrassing for him if it got out. He’s given so generously to the Cardinal’s coffers that an accusation like that probably wouldn’t harm him much. _But_ … Constance, a man who has nothing to lose does not feel the need to send a letter like this.’

 She looks at the letter, crumpled now from being passed between them. ‘He wants to frighten me so I’ll stay away from Lucille,’ she says, throat tight because Lucille is, besides the queen and the musketeers, Constance’s only friend in this maze. Even now, late at night in the quiet corridor, the palace feels like it is full of hostile watching eyes.

 ‘There has to be something else. Something that really would cause him trouble if you found out,’ Aramis says slowly.

 Constance still feels a bit hollow and sick, but her back straightens at that. ‘Then we must find it,’ she says immediately. ‘Whatever it is. If we can discredit him, we can stop him hurting Lucille as well.’

 Aramis nods slowly. ‘If it’s something serious enough that he’ll send threats of this nature to someone so close to the queen, it may be vital that we find it anyway.’


	3. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast at the Garrison; a discussion about husbands.

In the morning, when Aramis has been relieved by another musketeer, Constance walks with him back to the Garrison. She has scarcely slept, and her eyes meet the morning glare with grainy reluctance. It was hard to sleep with that letter still in the room, as a reminder that her private space is less private and less safe than she had thought. She wanted to burn it, and Aramis wouldn't let her. 

At the gate, they pass another pair of Red Guards, and Constance is startled when they again spit at the sight of Aramis and snarl 'Spanish dog!' shamelessly to his face. He inclines his head to them ironically without breaking stride. Constance casts a sideways glance at him: weary-looking at the end of his night watch but armed to the teeth - Aramis is not the sort of man you casually insult in public. That seems so self-evident that the Red Guards' abandonment of all caution must surely be cause for alarm. But Aramis shows none. 

'Doesn't it upset you?' she asks, without really thinking.  

He gives her a quick, false smile. 'No, it's just Red Guards. If it weren't about being Spanish, there would be something else. They're habitually rude to musketeers.' 

Constance nods, though she suspects he is not being entirely honest. This is hardly her first encounter with Red Guards, and she's never seen this kind of casual vitriol from them before. 

'It would have upset my mother,' Aramis says, very quietly; and she's so startled she stops walking and has to skip a couple of paces to catch up. 

His expression is only thoughtful, but she feels instinctively that there is a complicated kind of grief behind that statement. Matching his quiet tone, she says 'Is she... still living?' 

Aramis shakes his head. 'I'm sorry,' Constance murmurs, and he nods an acknowledgement. 

 At the Garrison, he leaves her in the courtyard while he goes up to Porthos' room, where his friend is still reluctantly resting his broken left leg after a nasty mission two weeks ago. They were with a group of musketeers attacked on the road outside Paris; caught on an enclosed part of the path and outnumbered. One of their number had been killed outright by a musket ball to the throat.

 Constance heard about what happened through palace hearsay and was half-frantic with worry before d'Artagnan could hurry to the palace to inform her that the musketeer killed in the ambush had not been anyone of her acquaintance. His face was tight with grief - clearly the dead man had been known to him - as he explained that Porthos' leg had been crushed under his horse when it was shot down. They were late back because he and Aramis had supported the wounded musketeer between them on foot for most of the ten mile march back to Paris, Athos and another musketeer following them with the corpse of the man who had been killed slung over their only remaining horse. 

For Constance, it had been a vicious reminder of what cost her own safety and freedom had almost exacted. For the musketeers, it seemed all but forgotten a week later - dead comrade buried with little fanfare and Porthos already only grumpy at being limited by his injury. Only behind closed doors, d'Artagnan had been bewildered by grief and by the brutal fragility of a soldier's life. He'd choked into Constance's shoulder that he didn't understand how the others didn't seem to care, how they didn't seem shaken by what had happened. Constance had been gentle and soothing, and he had slowly settled himself into stoicism again.

 Constance can see the change happening to him, and she does mourn for the young and open d'Artagnan she first met. Sometimes, now, she can see all of the ghosts quelled in his eyes; the same haunted look that she's seen on Athos, Porthos and Aramis when they don't think anyone's looking at them. 

Athos salutes her as he strolls through the gate, too well-bred to show it if he's surprised to see her here. 'Good morning, Constance. Is Aramis back yet?' 

 'He's gone upstairs,' she says, absurdly grateful that he hasn't asked her what she's doing at the Garrison so early. Athos nods, and with a graceful gesture invites her to a seat at the rough wooden table by the stairs. He offers her bread and fruit, and though she's not particularly hungry she picks at the food until Aramis reappears on the stairs, Porthos' arm slung around his shoulders. 

 'What happened to your crutch?' Athos asks him wearily.

 Porthos scowls and says 'Don't need a crutch,' and Aramis raises his eyebrows at Athos and explains, 'Someone mistook it for firewood.'

 'How unfortunate,' Athos replies, dry as dust. 

 The other two join them at the table, making a somewhat ungainly figure between Porthos' injury and Aramis' increasingly evident exhaustion. None of them remark on the oddity of Constance joining them for breakfast, and though she feels d'Artagnan's absence sharply, she does feel her ragged nerves settle a little in their company. 

 'Did you have a quiet watch?' Athos asks, with a faint flicker of his eyes towards Constance as he addresses his comrade. 

 'Largely uneventful,' Aramis confirms, though again with a twitch in his expression that seems to communicate something to the others.

 He looks to Constance briefly for permission and she nods before he starts outlining the tale of the Comte d'Auverne's threatening note. Athos goes still and intent, asking a few shrewd questions and demanding to see the letter itself, which Constance reluctantly produces for inspection. Porthos, across the table from her, has shaken off the gloomy mood that pain and inactivity have instilled in him, and looks simultaneously affronted and concerned.  Athos finishes reading and passes the paper to Porthos. His face gives nothing at all away.

 'Auverne?' he says sharply, looking to Constance for confirmation, and she nods. He frowns from her to Aramis. 'You believe that he must be hiding something, to behave like this?' 

 'You said it yourself,' Aramis remarks, badly hiding a yawn behind his cuff. 'A man who mistreats his wife is a scoundrel, but not a criminal. If that was the only thing Constance's attention stood to expose, why would he go to such lengths to discourage her?' 

 Athos hums what sounds like agreement. 'We must proceed carefully in this,' he says, with a hard look at all three of them as though he's not sure which is most likely to require the reminder. 'Auverne is wealthy and influential, with the Cardinal in particular. He could be a dangerous enemy, unless we can provide hard proof.' 

 'He's a merchant,' Porthos says. 'If he's involved with something shady, it's got to be to do with trade.' 

 'We could make some discreet investigations into his dealings,' Athos allows. 'But if it's your friendship with his wife that has him so shaken, Constance, he must fear that she could expose whatever it is he's hiding.' 

 Constance nods; she has been thinking the same herself. 'I must persuade her to speak to me,' she says firmly. 'I know she wanted to tell me something, the other day at the market. If I can convince her that she is safe...'

 'It might not hurt to hint that we can protect her physically if it comes to it,' Aramis suggests. Porthos, at his side, cracks his knuckles as if, after weeks of inactivity, he'd like nothing more than to teach a lesson to a man who threatens Constance and mistreats his own wife. Constance nods, feeling a rush of gratitude for the casual way they draw ranks around her, with no less loyalty than if she, herself, were a musketeer. 

 They talk a while longer, outlining a tentative plan of action to set in motion that afternoon when Athos comes off duty. When they finish breakfast, Athos sends Aramis still yawning to bed. He hesitates, glancing at Porthos, who waves him away and scowls at Athos when he interjects: 'If Porthos is determined to use other musketeers in lieu of his tragically mislaid crutch, he will have no shortage of volunteers here. Go to bed, Aramis.'

 He does, bowing to Constance and trailing up the stairs as though half-asleep already. She shifts to stand. 'I should return to the palace. The queen may be looking for me.'

 Athos stands too, and offers to accompany her, since his own watch is due to start shortly. He disappears to fetch his weapons and leaves her with Porthos, who has become slightly gloomy again at the prospect of being left here by himself. Nonetheless, he looks at Constance warm and concerned, and tells her firmly that she has nothing to fear.

 'I know,' she assures him. She thinks, dizzy with gratitude, of Lucille so alone in her frightening cold house with her husband, and knows that her unlikely friendship with these four musketeers has been an extraordinary blessing. It makes her want to make some gesture of friendship in return, and quite suddenly something occurs to her.

 'Porthos, this thing with Aramis and the Red Guard - do you think it worries him more than he lets on?' 

 Porthos frowns, politely nonplussed, and sits up straighter on the bench. 'What's this?'

 'They keep making remarks about him being Spanish. He says they're claiming he must be a spy.' 

 Athos has returned and overheard the last of this. 'Not that again,' he sighs. 

 Porthos looks furious, gripping the knife he’s been eating with so hard his knuckles have gone pale. 'Thought the captain put a stop to that ' he growls, exchanging a glance with Athos. 'This was today?' he asks sharply, looking back to Constance. 

 She nods. 'And last night. He just said - they're always rude to musketeers, as a matter of course. They couldn't... cause real trouble for him, could they?' 

 Athos frowns. 'Probably not. But this is not necessarily a good time and place to have undue attention drawn to Spanish blood.' He tsks in apparent irritation. 'He hasn't said anything. He's always the same.' 

 Constance looks at her hands awkwardly. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up,' she mumbles, thinking of that fleeting open look on Aramis' face; the last thing she wants is to betray his confidence. 

 Athos shakes his head distractedly. 'No, it's best that we know. If they do try to go beyond spoken insults, Aramis may need us to back him up.' 

 Constance looks up in alarm. ‘Wouldn’t you all get in trouble for fighting with the Red Guards?’

 Porthos grins rather nastily. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

 Athos sighs and gives him a look. ‘It used to happen a lot,’ he explains. ‘Just in taverns and so on; Aramis can be quick to anger.’

 Porthos grunts and says ‘In his defence, he’s no worse than me.’

 ‘Both of you are a nightmare,’ Athos says flatly, as if it’s something that is so indisputable it’s scarcely worth the breath of saying so. Porthos doesn’t seem to take offence, grinning into his cup.

 Constance looks uncertainly between them. ‘He didn’t… retaliate. Last night.’

 Athos nods thoughtfully. ‘This is different. There’s a real possibility of war with the Spanish. They’re not just needling him because he’s a musketeer.’

 Her guts squirm, cold and anxious. ‘He’s not even Spanish,’ she says exasperatedly, because in some ways that seems the most ridiculous part of the whole thing, and she’s surprised to find both of them looking at her.

 ‘Is that what he said?’ Athos asks, and she nods hesitantly, looking from him to Porthos, who looks angry and sad. They look at one another and she can sense that she’s missing something, but she’s already feeling like she’s intruding on Aramis’ affairs. Whatever they’re managing to say to one another in that complicated look, it isn’t Constance’s business.

 Athos sighs and squints at the sun for a moment before he turns to her. ‘Are you ready, Constance? We should go.’

 

-/-

 

Constance leaves Auverne's threatening letter with Athos, since God knows she doesn't want it near her. He advises her to stay close to the queen as much as possible, and seeing the wisdom of that she makes for the queen's apartments as soon as they arrive back at the palace. The queen is sitting in the midst of her other ladies working on some embroidery with a far away look in her eye. She blinks and brightens when Constance arrives. 

 'Constance! There you are. Ladies, I grow weary of embroidery. Would you be so kind as to go and discover his majesty's plans for today? And Élodie, please go enquire of the Lord Chamberlain about plans for the gala next month...?'

 Swiftly and authoritatively, the queen clears the room until she and Constance are left alone. It isn't the first time this has happened, so Constance is more relieved than alarmed.

 Once all the others have left the room, Anne relaxes. 'At last,' she sighs, 'what an interminable morning.' 

 Constance smiles and goes to sit beside her, pushing both Auverne’s letter and the Red Guards’ behaviour to the back of her mind. ‘I’m sorry to be late,’ Constance says, and the queen waves away her apology.

 ‘Not at all.’ She sighs delicately, though her posture does not wilt in the slightest. ‘It exhausts me, talking to some of these ladies. I have to be so careful with everything I say.’

 Constance feels simultaneously flattered and uncomfortable that she is the one the queen chooses to confess this to.

 Anne goes on, a little guiltily. ‘They are good women, most of them. But I’ve seldom felt – at ease, in their company. French women can be so difficult.’ She smiles at Constance graciously. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

 Constance blushes. ‘Are there no other Spanish women at court?’

 ‘None. The ambassador is not married, and he is the only person I ever share a word of Spanish with. My husband prefers that I never speak it in public, anyway.’

 Immediately, Constance thinks again of Aramis and the Red Guard. If the king has essentially banned the language from the court, there must surely be some deeper meaning behind it. There are always ambassadors from England and the Holy Roman Empire passing in and out, and it’s not unusual to hear languages other than French in the palace corridors.

 To the queen, somewhat nervous of asking such a personal question, she says ‘Do you miss speaking Spanish?’

 Anne doesn’t lose any of her poise. ‘I do. But, I am French now. I am Queen of France; whatever else they say about me. Nobody could doubt that.’

 Constance agrees hurriedly, noticing the slight edge to her tone. She wonders whether the same anti-Spanish sentiment that is beginning to be palpable on the streets has reached the ear of the queen.

 There is a brief, somewhat uncomfortable silence, and Constance steels herself to initiate another difficult conversation. Cautiously, she says, ‘Did the Comtesse d’Auverne wait on you – before she was married?’

 Anne pauses, thinking, before memory flickers in her eyes. ‘Yes – poor Lucille. She never seemed entirely at ease at court. She has too many sharp edges to do well here. But she was very sweet. I have seen very little of her, since her marriage.’

 ‘I met her recently,’ Constance explains. ‘She was kind, but – anxious.’

 Anne nods sadly, and Constance feels bold enough to venture further. ‘Do you think she is… happy, in her marriage?’

 Anne gives her an odd look and bites her lip before answering. ‘I think you and I both know that is a complicated question,’ she says quietly. Constance feels as though she has been chastised. She nods hesitantly, and the queen, seeing her discomfort, lays a hand on her arm. ‘Are you concerned about her?’ she asks kindly.

 ‘I am,’ she admits. Opposite her, Anne’s expression shifts to a kind of subtle determination, and when she looks Constance in the eye and promises to look into it, Constance believes her.

 As much as she enjoys Anne’s company, Constance does always feel slightly on edge with her – she is, after all, the queen – and though her trust and her friendship are important to her and, she believes, genuine, Constance can’t just relax and say whatever comes into her head. There is an order to all this, she does understand that, and Constance is just a seamstress and by rights should have no place in the palace’s pecking order at all.

 In the mid afternoon she meets Athos at the edge of an elegant courtyard and tells him what little she gathered from the queen about Lucille’s family and her marriage. They wait for Aramis to join them to embark on an investigation into Auverne’s business operations, leaning quietly against the wall.

 They wait for what seems a long time. When Aramis at last appears, he’s running an agitated hand through his hair and walking quickly, and he looks embarrassed when he sees them.

 ‘Caught up on your sleep?’ Athos asks him wryly, and instead of returning the smirk, Aramis huffs in frustration.

 ‘I was held up at the gate,’ he mumbles. ‘Let’s go out the other way.’

 Athos doesn’t press the issue. Constance, watching the tense line of Aramis’ mouth, thinks about the Red Guards again.

 


	4. Hostilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis has a trying afternoon

Aramis looks in on Porthos again when he wakes up, twisting his hands guiltily at the thought of leaving him here all afternoon alone as well. He isn’t in his room, but as soon as Aramis gets to the stairs he can see his friend sitting at the table, bad foot propped on a stool and deep in conversation with young Jacques the stable boy, what looks like every pistol in the armoury lined up on the table between them.

 Porthos looks up at the sound of his weapons rattling as he descends the stairs. ‘Mornin’, sleeping beauty,’ he grunts, which is easily the most enthusiastic greeting Aramis has had from him in the two weeks since the disastrous mission when he broke his leg. He grins in relief.

‘You look busy,’ he says, nodding to the row of pistols.

‘Yeah well. Got to keep occupied somehow. You going to meet Athos?’

He grunts affirmatively. ‘To spend an exciting afternoon intimidating merchants. Truly a heroic endeavour. You can start composing the ballad now.’

Porthos sniggers; Jacques meanwhile is looking politely confused, wide quiet eyes on Aramis.

‘S’to defend a fair lady’s honour, though,’ Porthos points out. ‘That’s got to be worth something.’

Aramis concedes the point gracefully. ‘There is that. I wish you good labours, gentlemen.’

He turns to make for the gate.

‘Aramis – ‘

Porthos has half-raised himself on his good leg, and he stops, raising his eyebrows in question. Porthos frowns, and glances at Jacques who is still spectating on their conversation with innocent, interested eyes.

‘Everythin’ alright?’

He’s obviously worried about something, and there’s no reason for it, unless Constance has spoken to him. Aramis feels a flicker of irritation – nobody ever seems to think he’s capable of dealing with anything without help – but squashes the feeling quickly. Porthos – and Athos, presumably – have heard nothing from her that they wouldn’t have noticed themselves soon enough. The Red Guard don’t seem to be put off their jibes by the presence of witnesses; if anything, they prefer to hurl insults in public where it is more difficult to offer swift and violent reprisal.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he says, with a smile he’s fully aware is unconvincing. He’ll talk to Porthos later, and convince him that they can’t start beating up Red Guards for their insubordination, no matter how satisfying that would be. For now, he has to leave his best friend sitting there scarcely mobile and visibly worried, and the guilt of that hangs over him like a cloud all the way to the palace gate.

‘You! Stop there.’

The recruit manning the gate is a new face and can’t be much over twenty, but apparently it’s now something of an initiation for new members of the Red Guard to learn how best to torment musketeers. With his smirking colleagues looking on, he pointedly blocks the entrance with his sword. Aramis growls a little as he clears his throat.

‘Let me pass.’

‘What business does a Spanish soldier have at the French court?’

He squares his shoulders and lays a hand on his sword. This pipsqueak won’t know what has hit him if he attacks, Aramis thinks wistfully, knowing full well that if he starts a fight with the Red Guard at the palace gate he’ll have worse than a few insults to deal with.

 ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense. You know who I am; I’m wearing the king’s insignia, for heaven’s sake. Let me pass.’

 ‘We serve the king of _France_ here, _amigo_ ,’ says the smirking boy, and there are a couple of sniggers from the watching guards.

 ‘You serve the first minister of France,’ Aramis corrects him irritably. ‘I serve the king, or I would like to, if you would get out of my way.’ He sidesteps, meaning to shoulder his way past, but the boy moves with him, and another guard steps up beside him, effectively blocking the entrance. 

 ‘Does the king know there’s a _Spaniard_ in the musketeers?’ the boy demands, looking round at his comrades like a strutting cock.

Aramis is wondering if he can get away with drawing his sword just as a warning when Ronsard, a Red Guard sergeant of long standing, steps in. ‘Let him pass, lad. Spaniard or not; musketeers are trigger-happy when you cross them.’

The boy casts a disappointed look at his superior, then sneers at Aramis again before finally deigning to move. Aramis nods at the sergeant, conveying something that is not quite thanks. There _was_ a time when the two regiments’ rivalry was of a more-or-less friendly character – Ronsard and Aramis are the only men there who have served long enough to remember more civil times.

 By the time he joins Athos and Constance it’s obvious they’ve been waiting for him and he knows he disguises his agitation poorly. They don’t demand an explanation, though, for which he is quietly grateful.

As they walk, Athos quickly details what he has been able to unearth. He’s managed a lot in one morning’s guard duty: a quiet discussion of the Comte’s business dealings with a tradesman in the courtyard, an assessment of his character from a groom who used to work for him, and the chambermaid’s account of how the note got into Constance’s bedroom the previous evening. The note had been passed to her by a footman in Auverne’s employ, and the maid had reluctantly agreed to deliver it herself when she went in to set the fire.

Constance is distracted and has drawn a few paces ahead, so Athos manages in a quiet aside to explain _why_ the chambermaid had agreed so easily.  ‘She said – she assumed it was a love note. Constance has picked up something of a reputation.’ He says it delicately, his mouth twisting in regret.

‘Don’t tell her that,’ Aramis says quickly. 

‘Of course not.’

 They make for the docks and spend a frustrating few hours discovering an awful lot of dull information about Auverne’s trading operations. Having originally inherited a prosperous metalworking business from his father, it seems that the man has swollen his fortune by buying other men’s shops and now runs a veritable fleet of ships which trade in almost everything, in France and beyond. Most of the men they encounter have never dealt with him directly and only know their own small corner of the operation. It strikes Aramis as a smart way to run a business that is concealing double-dealing of some sort – no-one here knows the full extent of anything, so it would be difficult for them to give much away – but they find no solid evidence.

 He’s also – though he knows better than to say this out loud – regretting allowing Constance to join them for this. If Auverne is already threatening her for meddling in his affairs, news of her participation in this unofficial investigation could spell very bad news for her.

 He manages to hiss most of this to Athos while Constance is distracted, and Athos nods fractionally in agreement. Out loud, he says, ‘This is getting us nowhere.’

 Constance looks up from her study of the harbour log to frown in disappointment. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. Maybe we were wrong.’

 ‘We weren’t,’ Aramis says. ‘We’re just not looking in the right place. It’s still obvious that he has something to hide.’

 They thank the harbourmaster and withdraw to the nearest remotely respectable tavern (another concession to Constance’s presence – Athos has rarely seemed to care at all for respectability in his choice of drinking establishments).

 ‘It has to be the house,’ Athos says quietly. ‘It was your visit to his house that prompted the threat; whatever it is that he’s up to, the evidence must be there.’

 Aramis hums doubtfully, aware that there are still a thousand possibilities; they’ve found no useful leads yet.

 ‘I’m worried about Lucille,’ Constance interjects. ‘If he’s threatening me for speaking to her, I’m sure he will have done something to her.’

 It’s a legitimate concern. If the poor woman was already sporting bruises before Auverne decided that her friendship with Constance was a threat, Aramis dreads to think what danger she could be in now. But getting access to the elusive Comtesse is a problem in itself.

 ‘We’ll have to try and talk to her,’ Aramis says, looking sideways at Athos. ‘She’s still our only lead; we just have to convince her that we’re on her side.’

 Athos sighs again and grunts unhappily. ‘Fine. Go with Constance, in case the husband is there, you can always wait outside if she doesn’t want to discuss anything in front of you. I’m going to ask the customs officers what Auverne is exporting; I’ll see you at the Garrison.’

 Aramis agrees quickly: Athos has a deeply-bedded hatred of noble houses and aristocratic women, and they’re not letting Constance into Auverne’s house on her own again. Constance looks a little irritated that Athos has apparently assumed command over her as well – her face always shows irritation so clearly, he loves her for not bothering to hide it – but doesn’t object, presumably because this is what she was hoping for anyway.

 He follows Constance back to the more affluent streets near the Tuileries, watching her carefully. She’s pale with determination and lack of sleep, her jaw set tightly, and her agitation grows as they approach the Auverne mansion.

 They halt at the corner of the street for a quick whispered conference. Constance insists that since everything depends on Lucille trusting them, they have to be as honest as possible. Aramis doubts that honesty will even get them through the door, but he concedes to her judgement. No doubt an unexpected afternoon visit from the queen’s confidant and a random musketeer will look strange, but there’s no helping that. They knock and wait; the maid opens the door only a foot or so, and narrows her eyes at the sight of them.

 ‘Madame?’ she says uncertainly.

 ‘We are here to call upon the Comtesse,’ Constance says firmly.

 ‘With an armed escort?’ the maid demands.

 ‘Just a friend,’ says Aramis, bowing to her.

 ‘We need to see the Comtesse,’ Constance repeats. ‘It’s very urgent.’

 Reluctantly the maid allows them into the elegantly appointed hallway. Aramis takes his hat off and lingers back near the door while Constance tries to peer up into the gloom of the stairwell. The same maid comes back, bobs a barely adequate curtsey and says that the Comtesse regrets that she is not well enough for visitors at present. Constance doesn’t blink.

 ‘I’m sorry to disturb her. We won’t keep her long, but it’s vital that we see her.’

 Aramis smiles to himself, half-hidden in his shadow. Constance is a marvel. Left without much choice, the maid goes back up to report this to her mistress, and they are eventually shown into a parlour. They wait for several more minutes, long enough that Constance starts tapping her fingers in agitation, and then a thin, light-haired woman sweeps into the room, wearing a dress that looks like it weighs more than she does. She flicks a frightened glance at Aramis, and apparently decides to ignore him, turning to Constance, adopting a haughty demeanour.

 ‘What’s all this about, Madame Bonacieux?’ she demands, her voice lazily aristocratic with a poorly disguised tremble.

 ‘Lucille,’ Constance says, stepping close to her. ‘Are you well?’

 ‘Quite well,’ the Comtesse snaps. ‘But it is not my custom to take callers at this hour.’

 ‘I’m sorry,’ Constance says gently. ‘I was worried about you.’

 ‘There’s no need.’ Her voice cracks, and a shiver in her throat gives away her unease.

 ‘Lucille,’ Constance says. ‘I received a letter last night from your husband.’

 The Comtesse flinches. Constance looks at Aramis, swallows cautiously, and presses on. ‘I want to tell you something,’ she says. ‘You know, I think, that I no longer live in my husband’s house?’

 The other woman nods hesitantly, frowning at her.

 ‘It was not a good marriage,’ Constance says. ‘For many reasons. But I would have stayed there, maybe for my whole life. If it were not for – having friends who I knew would stand by me. I would not have had the courage to leave otherwise.’

 The Comtesse is shaking all over now; she looks like she might cry.

 ‘It’s not the same thing,’ Constance goes on. ‘I know, your situation is not the same as mine. But I want to be your friend, Lucille. And this is my friend, Aramis. He is one of those who helped me, when I left my husband’s house.’

 The Comtesse shoots a sharp look at Aramis, frowning distrustfully.

 ‘I know he looks like a scoundrel,’ Constance says gently, smiling in encouragement, ‘but he’s harmless, really.’

 Aramis bows, and his sword clunks against the door behind him. _Harmless,_ indeed.

 ‘What do you want from me?’ the Comtesse croaks, eyes fixed now on her own hands.

 Constance looks up, and Aramis steps in, keeping his voice as soft as he can. ‘My lady, we have cause to believe that your husband is engaged in some treachery. Anything you can tell us – would help in the investigation.’

 She blinks at him in naked horror. ‘I _can’t_ …’ she chokes.

 ‘We won’t let anything happen to you,’ Constance says firmly, laying a hand gently on the other woman’s arm.

 ‘You don’t understand.’

 ‘We _want_ to understand.’

 Aramis watches silently. The Comtesse is shaking with fright, but Constance’s kindness is harder to resist than violence, sometimes. After a long, tense moment, the woman grips Constance’s arm and leans forward to hiss in her ear, almost too low for Aramis to make out.

 ‘There’s a shipment going out on Friday at dawn. He’s very anxious about it. I overheard a meeting. It is something against the king. Something… I don’t know. I don’t – he doesn’t tell me anything. Constance – you must – you won’t…’

 Constance soothes her, flicking her eyes to Aramis to confirm that he’s heard.

 There’s a clatter of footsteps in the hallway, and the maid bursts into the room, bobbing a curtsey. ‘His lordship is on his way home, my lady,’ she blurts, looking worried. The Comtesse nods abruptly, going rigid. She staggers back from Constance and turns white.

 ‘You must leave. Now.’

 Constance nods. ‘Will you be alright?’

 She just shakes her head, lips tight.

 ‘Has he hurt you?’ Constance presses. ‘If you are in danger…’ She reaches out again for the Comtesse’s arm.

 ‘Constance,’ Aramis says softly, tugging on her sleeve. ‘If we’re found here…’

 ‘I know,’ Constance snaps. She’s still frowning at the Comtesse, who has clammed up entirely and is avoiding her eye.

 ‘We have to go, Constance,’ Aramis says, adamant.

 She grits her teeth and huffs out an exasperated breath but begins to move. He takes her arm to hurry her along, inclining his head to the Comtesse as they walk away.

 They’re halfway across the hall when the door opens and a stern-looking bearded man strides through. Aramis recognises him from the court, but even had he not, there’s no mistaking the proprietary way he strides in to the house. Auverne. They stop dead; there’s no use trying to evade him now.

 Aramis half-bows with a sharp smile. ‘Your lordship. My apologies, we were just leaving.’

 He studies them intently, gaze skipping from Aramis to Constance and past them to the doorway where the Comtesse is standing petrified.

 ‘Madame Bonacieux. And a musketeer. What’s this?’ he says, voice very level. It reminds Aramis unpleasantly of Athos at his angriest.

 ‘Just a social call,’ Aramis says, though Auverne was clearly not addressing him.

 ‘You brought a musketeer into my house?’ Auverne sneers, and Aramis almost laughs, eyebrows raised at his rudeness.

 Constance is staring at him as though too disgusted to speak, and Aramis can hardly blame her. Behind them, the Comtesse stammers, ‘They forced – I told them to leave. I told them…’

 ‘We were just leaving,’ Aramis says again, with all the grace he can muster.

 ‘Aramis –‘ Constance whispers, and he shakes his head. He understands her worry, but they need to leave here.

 ‘My apologies, your lordship, for disturbing you,’ Aramis says, though Auverne is looking straight past them to his wife. Aramis makes for the door, steering Constance past the Comte and all but pushing her back out into the street.

 


	5. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than one unfounded accusation is thrown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late!

Aramis does not let go of her arm until they are several streets away, and Constance’s jaw is tensed too tight to speak at first. When he releases her, however, she rounds on him angrily.

‘What were you thinking? We just left her there!’ 

Aramis winces and ducks his chin to his chest. ‘I know, but we would have made things worse by staying.’

‘He might – do anything – _anything_ to her now – ‘

 ‘He won’t kill her; her death would draw unwanted attention at a time when he’s about to commit a crime.’ The reasonable tone is infuriating, and she steps back so he can’t lay a placatory hand on her arm.

‘Oh he won’t _kill_ her,’ Constance snaps. ‘What an enormous relief.’

 Aramis runs a hand through his hair. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

 Constance watches him all anxious and agitated, and quite suddenly, she feels guilty. ‘It isn’t your fault. I just – I’m sorry. I _hate_ this.’

 Ever forgiving, he smiles. ‘We’ve got something to go on, now,’ he reminds her. ‘If we can catch him out with this shipment on Friday, he could be in the Bastille by the end of the week.’

‘Here’s hoping,’ Constance says savagely.

At length, they start walking again, making for the Garrison. As they reach the gate, Aramis glances in and waves at Porthos, who seems to be sitting in the midst of a mountain of broken harnesses. Instead of walking in to join him, Aramis squints at the sky and swears under his breath.

‘I have to go,’ he says, ‘I’m on duty in half an hour.’

Constance looks sharply at him. ‘You’ve got the night watch again?’

 ‘You should stay and have dinner with Porthos and Athos,’ he breezes on as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘They’ll walk you back later.’

‘I wouldn’t have let you come with me if I’d known. You’ve hardly slept.’           

‘You wouldn’t have let me?’ he echoes, amused, smirking at her. She scowls.

 ‘Someone’s got to mother you. Heaven knows you need it.’ It’s out of her mouth before she has time to think, and she winces immediately, remembering the quiet way he spoke of his mother that morning. To her relief, he doesn’t seem to react; the smile doesn’t flicker.

‘I will sleep for as long as you dictate when my watch is over, fair and tyrannical Constance,’ he says, bowing obnoxiously.

‘Shoo, then,’ she commands, trying not to smile and ruin the effect.

‘ _Don’t_ walk back on your own,’ he insists.

‘Now who’s nagging?’ she says airily, and adds ‘I won’t,’ when he glares at her.

 She watches him go, hesitating in the doorway, and when she turns Porthos is watching her, forehead creased and his hands still on the harness he’s mending.

 ‘How did it go?’ Porthos asks when she approaches.

 She sighs. ‘Quite badly, and then quite well, and then _very_ badly,’ she tells him. He tilts in his seat, stretching his back, and gives her a concerned look.

 ‘Sounds like a story,’ he says levelly.

 Dinner is a subdued affair. She reports to Porthos and Athos and none of them voice their concerns, but it’s clear to all of them that both Lucille and Constance herself are in very precarious positions now. Nobody eats very much, and all of them are too tense for easy conversation. For her part, Constance feels just a little awkward without d’Artagnan there, shameless and ardently in love, or failing that Aramis, her self-declared honorary brother. Porthos and Athos are good friends, but she knows them less well, and preoccupied as she is, conversation dries up in her throat.

 Athos escorts her back to the palace afterwards, and knowing that Aramis is in the hallway outside the queen’s apartments, close at hand if she needs him, she does manage to relax enough to sleep.

 Nonetheless, she still wakes aching, the tensions of yesterday making themselves felt in her shoulders and back. Aramis has already left, but she nods to the unfamiliar musketeer by the door as she makes her way in to see the queen.

 The preparations for a summer gala are keeping the queen and her ladies fairly busy, but since these plans include several new gowns, everyone for once is anxious for Constance’s opinion. She spends a fairly pleasant morning discussing the relative merits of different fabrics, the familiar intricacies of dressmaking almost enough to let her forget yesterday’s dramas.

 When the door opens with startling force two hours later, she’s startled out of her calm.

 ‘Élodie?’ the queen says sharply. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

 The newcomer is slightly flushed as if with excitement. ‘Your majesty!’ she says shrilly. ‘Dreadful news in the palace. That Spanish musketeer has been arrested!’

 Constance stares at her and her innards seem to turn to iron, cold and heavy in her stomach. Her mouth hangs open, but it’s the queen who responds, voice a little colder and harsher than usual. ‘Whatever for?’

 ‘The Comte d’Auverne accused him of breaking into his house and attacking his wife!’ Élodie babbles. ‘The Comte stormed in in a rage and demanded that the man be arrested immediately! He’s causing a terrible scene. Poor, poor Lucille, imagine having a soldier force himself…!’

 ‘Calm down, Élodie,’ Anne says irritably. She looks at Constance and frowns. ‘Constance? Are you alright? You look very pale.’

 ‘I –‘ she croaks, and snatches rather wildly at the back of a chair to keep her balance. ‘This is all wrong. It’s not true.’

 Anne stares at her, eyes a little too shrewd, Constance wonders how much she knows or might have guessed about their confrontations with Auverne. After a moment she spins abruptly to glare at Élodie, who is twittering excitedly to one of the other ladies. ‘ _Spanish_ musketeer?’ Anne demands. She looks back to Constance. ‘Whoever do they mean -?’

 ‘Aramis,’ Constance manages to choke out. ‘He’s – my friend – I –‘

 Anne looks stricken at the name. Constance has sometimes suspected her of having a soft spot for Aramis, and she’s not above exploiting that now if it will help. Her mind whirls too fast to think – Aramis, arrested, on Auverne’s accusation. It’s too fast, too unexpected a move; of all the people who might have been in danger from Auverne’s reprisal, she had not worried about _Aramis…_

 Anne takes Constance’s hand firmly. ‘Come with me, Constance. We’ll go to court now and see that this is set right. Élodie, perhaps you should go and lie down. You have become rather hysterical. Come on, Constance.’

 Anne steers her for the door and does not let go of her hand during the walk through the palace’s long galleries. She doesn’t speak, either, and when Constance chances a look sideways Anne’s face is set and anxious, her calm façade as close to cracking as Constance has ever seen it.

 The throne room is busy; the king, cardinal and Auverne are in animated conference at one end of the room; courtiers, Red Guards and a few musketeers are clustered around the edges. At the far end, Aramis is standing flanked by Red Guards looking pale and startled; Athos and Treville are behind them wearing matching expressions of barely contained rage. Anne pats Constance on the hand and releases her, sweeping up to take her seat beside Louis. Constance skirts the edges of the room and makes for Athos, elbowing her way through the throng to tug on his sleeve.

 ‘What is this?’ she asks, without preamble.

 Athos glances down at her, winces, and nods, pulling her back slightly so he can explain in a rushed undertone.

 ‘The Red Guard arrived with a warrant before Aramis was even back from his watch. Auverne claims he was trespassing in his house and harassing his wife. We’re not sure how much he knows.’ Athos looks sideways at the captain, wearing a guilty expression she’s never seen on him before.

 ‘We did nothing wrong,’ Constance hisses. ‘You can’t arrest someone for paying a social call.’

 Captain Treville frowns at her, but Constance is too anxious to particularly care and in any case he isn’t _her_ commanding officer.

They wait, too jittery for conversation. She studies the back of Aramis’ head, and the tight set of his shoulders. At length, the King calls the gathering to some semblance of order and demands an explanation from Aramis. By this time, Treville and Athos have managed to chase off the Red Guards and they stand flanking him as he haltingly explains their visit to Auverne’s house.

 ‘What possible cause did you have to go to his house uninvited, man?’ Louis demands.

 Aramis swallows nervously. Constance has stepped forward before she even fully realises what she’s doing – this was her plan, her idea, and she’s not the sort of woman to let anyone else bear the consequences.

 ‘It was at my request, your majesty.’

 The King stares at her, and gives his wife an uncertain look. ‘Your request, Madame Bonacieux? Why was that?’

 ‘Your majesty, I was – concerned about the Comtesse. I went to see her, and I asked Aramis to come with me. In case – in case she wasn’t safe.’

 ‘The devil do you mean, not safe –‘

 Constance feels herself blush scarlet, but she presses on. ‘I believe her husband is violent with her, your majesty.’

 There’s a furious hiss from Auverne, and some loud interjections from the watching courtiers.

 ‘This true, musketeer?’ the king demands, glaring from one to the other.

 Aramis confirms it in a hoarse voice. Auverne scoffs loudly. ‘I’ve never been subjected to such outrageous slander in my life,’ he declares, and turns to the cardinal to go on ranting, while the noise in the room bubbles up all around the walls. Anne has reached over to say something to Louis, but he frowns and shakes her off, looking anxiously at the apoplectic Auverne. Constance can hear only parts of his tirade over the hubbub. Aramis has his head bent in whispered conference with his captain.

 ‘A common musketeer, in my house, uninvited – subjected to ridiculous accusations – won’t have my name abused and my property violated by some –‘

 From among the Red Guards, someone suddenly interjects in a clear shout. ‘He’s a Spanish spy! He was probably gathering information to send to his masters in Madrid!’

 The shout echoes into a suddenly quiet courtroom. Louis blinks. ‘Spanish, is he?’

 Treville steps forward. ‘Your Majesty, that is a ridiculous allegation. This man has served in the regiment since it was founded. He is no spy.’

 Auverne calms enough to speak at a normal volume, glancing sideways at the Red Guard who cast the accusation. ‘Perhaps not so ridiculous. I do some trade with Spain; it is possible they would set spies to observe my operation, and my relationship with the French court.’

 A muttering of agreement erupts amongst the watching guards and some of the courtiers, and Constance’s heart stutters in horror. She looks desperately to the queen, whose expression is quietly tense, but who has yet to speak.

 ‘Are you Spanish, man?’ demands the king.

 Aramis’ bow is a little shaky; Constance can see his alarm at how quickly this has escalated. ‘No, your majesty. My mother was born in Spain, but I am a Frenchman, and your majesty’s humble servant.’

 ‘Aramis has been presented to you on several occasions, your majesty,’ Treville adds, standing close by at his shoulder.

 An impatient noise cuts off any further defence. ‘Either way, he has abused my reputation and trespassed on my property. I’ll have this man disciplined, your majesty,’ Auverne demands, his voice several shades louder than anyone else’s.

 The Cardinal inclines his head graciously. ‘I’m sure that request can be satisfied, Monsieur le Comte,’ he says calmly.

 ‘Aramis serves under my command and any question of discipline falls to me,’ Treville snaps, glaring at the Cardinal.

 ‘An example must be made,’ the Cardinal adds silkily, ignoring the Captain’s look.

 ‘The Comte is my friend and should not have to put up with this nonsense,’ the king announces, pouting. ‘His wife is his own affair, surely. This is a rum business.’

 Auverne looks furious; Constance can’t tell how much of it is faked. He says loudly, ‘I’ll not have my house invaded and my name slandered by a Spanish traitor and a musketeer’s whore.’

 There’s a collective intake of breath at that. Constance recoils as though she’s been slapped, and Athos grabs Aramis around the wrist before he can react. The queen is half out of her seat, white-faced with fury.

 ‘You’ll mind your tongue in this room, Comte,’ she says icily, but the king pats her on the arm in a placatory manner before she can continue.

 ‘Quite so – understandable that you’re upset, old chap, but mind your tongue in front of the ladies, eh?’

 Louis glances around the room, baffled by the onslaught of furious opinions. He looks to the Cardinal and asks him a quiet question. Richelieu, looking unflappable and reasonable as ever, says, ‘Sire, I would advise putting the musketeer up on a charge, and we can put all this unpleasantness behind us.’

 The king looks hugely relieved at the idea of brushing this under the carpet. ‘Quite right. Quite right. Teach your man a lesson, Treville, and see he keeps in line in future.’

 Treville’s mouth twitches in anger even as he nods.

 ‘Having him chained to the guard post for a day or so would be usual,’ the Cardinal suggests disinterestedly.

 ‘Teach the Spanish bastard what loyalty means in _France_!’ interjects a voice from amidst the Red Guards.

 Treville and Aramis both open their mouths to speak, but Auverne and his louder voice get there first. ‘I want him flogged,’ he insists.

 Constance has stepped forward again before she has time to think. ‘That’s barbaric, it was not _his_ idea to-‘

 ‘Silence!’ the king shrieks, and Athos reaches for her arm to tug her back behind him. The queen reaches for her husband’s arm, but is shaken off again. ‘Auverne, be satisfied, we will deal with this decisively. As to flogging…’ he falters, his distaste clear.

 The Cardinal steps up. ‘I believe it will do no harm to be severe in this case, sire. An example must be made, particularly if there is some doubt over the man’s loyalty.’

 ‘There is no doubt over my loyalty, your majesty,’ Aramis says, in a rush.

 ‘Be silent,’ snaps Louis, and Aramis, as though to demonstrate his disputed loyalty, closes his mouth immediately.

 ‘Fine. Have him flogged at dawn on Friday. Cardinal, you will be there to see justice done. Afterwards, he will be free to return to his commission, if Captain Treville is satisfied that the man is loyal.’

 Treville glances at Aramis, standing wide-eyed and silent in the midst of all this, and steps forward. ‘Your majesty, no crime has been committed here,’ he objects, his voice as even as he can make it.

 ‘I have just given you my decision, Treville!’ Louis spits, returning somewhat shakily to his seat. ‘If I have to say it again, it will not be so lenient.’

 Auverne makes a neat bow. ‘I am satisfied, your majesty,’ he says, and his eye slides disdainfully over Constance with a bitter smirk as he sweeps out.

 As if in a daze, she watches Aramis unbuckle his weapons and hand them to Athos, his hands shaking, Athos’ face pinched tight with fury. They exchange a few words, but Constance can’t hear them over the ringing in her ears.

 The court is breaking up – the King has stood to leave, extending a hand to the queen, who stares across the room in horror for a moment before she follows him. Courtiers, chattering in excitement over all the new gossip just generated, are starting to leave their positions. Four Red Guards are waiting impatiently for Aramis, and he looks white with shock as he turns to them at last and allows them to escort him out.

 Constance jolts forward to find Athos at her shoulder, holding her back. ‘Not now,’ he murmurs. She glances up at him and sees the way he’s restraining bitter fury behind pinched lips; she sees the haunted look in his eyes like injustice of this kind is a sour lesson he learned too long ago to even be surprised by it now. It makes her feel sick. She wrenches her arm out of his grip, sees a flicker of his surprised expression before she turns and flees.

 Nobody stops her. There is too much excitement going on, and Constance is not interesting enough to turn heads. She walks steadily but with grim purpose out of the palace, across the courtyard and on into the city, to the wide, elegant street where Auverne’s residence stands.

 He won’t be back from court yet, no doubt celebrating his victory with his coterie of admirers, so she should be safe from an unexpected confrontation, not that she cares in the grip of her fury. The maid tells her that Lucille is not at home either, but Constance storms past her into the hallway and the startled girl can only yelp an objection.

 ‘I wanted to help you!’ she shouts, her voice strange and uneven to her own ears. ‘I wanted to help. Look what you’ve done. _Do you know what you’ve done?_ ’

 She stands and grips the bannister and yells into the cavernous stairwell; she hears footsteps and a slamming door upstairs, and then the maid manages to summon footmen to seize her bodily and throw her out into the street.

 Constance staggers as far as the corner and has to stop, grabbing the wall for balance, fury eating into the strength of her bones. She listens to her own breath stretch out from panting panic to something slower and bleaker.

 This is all her fault. _She_ couldn’t leave this alone, and if Lucille wanted Constance’s help she has a funny way of showing it, and it isn’t even Constance who will pay the price for this error of judgment. Tears sting her eyes, but she still feels too angry to shed them.

 ‘Constance?’

 She spins; if she had a weapon on her, she would raise it, as she is, she just makes two tight fists at her sides. The mounted man swings down, and through stinging eyes it takes her a moment to recognize him; she only realizes it is d’Artagnan when he’s already reaching for her.

 ‘I just got back. The Garrison’s in an uproar. What on earth has happened?’

 


	6. Scattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and d'Artagnan fight a battle; Aramis takes visitors in the Chatelet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay to this update; I am in the depths of thesis/marking woes.

It isn’t even midday yet, and Aramis is in the Chatelet.

He leans against a stone wall with his arms resting on his steepled knees, staring absently at the opposite wall. His eyes are grainy with lack of sleep, but his mind is still churning with the whiplash shock of how dizzyingly _fast_ Auverne managed to get ahead of them.

He can hear the Red Guard at the end of the corridor. Weaponless in the hands of the Red Guard. He’s known for a while that this is a position he should avoid.

They did little worse than jostle him and spit insults on the way over here from the palace – though the insults, God help him, do get harder to ignore. He had to explain his parentage to the king, and now the Guards keep mentioning his mother – for heavens’ sake, his fiercely loving mother, whose funeral he was too late for – in their foul-mouthed attacks, and he can’t let this escalate but it’s against everything in him to let it slide…

Constance, too, becomes a target for filthy slurs; their opinions vary as to whether she is a traitor and a whore for associating with the likes of him, or whether he, Spanish dog, deserves to be castrated for corrupting a good French woman.

Aramis would have killed someone, weapon or no, had it not been for the sergeant Ronsard roaring at his men and sending them back to their assigned posts. Aramis had turned to face the wall, trying to bring his seething under control.

 Ronsard cleared his throat behind him and Aramis jolted in surprise. 

‘I’m sorry.’

He spun, eyebrows shooting up, startled out of his fury, to look at the old sergeant, standing watching him on the other side of the bars.

‘What?’ Aramis said sharply.

‘Sorry. This has gone too far. Got out of hand.’

 Aramis swallowed. ‘I seem to remember you gave me a bloody nose yourself on one occasion - for being a “foreigner.”’

 ‘Same night you charmed a pretty girl out of my lap with a bit of Spanish poetry. And I seem to remember you hit me back.’

Aramis managed half a smirk, despite himself. ‘Fair’s fair.’ Looking back through the barred wall, his expression sobered quickly.

Ronsard shrugged at him. ‘Look. You’re a musketeer, and therefore, a scoundrel. But there’s no honour and no sense in what they’re doing to you now.’

Aramis hesitated. ‘It wasn’t just…’

 ‘No, I heard that. You’ve got a talent for making enemies in all the wrong places, my lad.’

 ‘You’re not the first to say so.’

Ronsard rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

‘Ronsard?’ He looked back. ‘You’re a Red Guard, and as such, an uncivilized lout. But in my position one has to make the best of a bad lot. Can you get a message to the Captain for me?’

 

*

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes get wider and wider as Constance babbles out the story, holding her gently by the shoulders and stooped to look into her eyes. The words don’t come easily, she’s not telling it very well, but bless him, he manages to keep his impatience mostly under wraps. Tears are a stinging threat at the back of her eyes, and she screws up her face in a frown to keep them at bay, shaking.

‘And he – he told the king that we were there to harass his wife – or that we’d hurt her, or that Aramis had – I don’t know, I suppose – something, but –‘

‘The king believed him?’

Constance nods, lips pressed tight.

‘The Cardinal was there – and Auverne – and, oh God, d’Artagnan, the Red Guard – they’ve got some sort of _vendetta_ against Aramis, and they kept – shouting that he was a traitor, or a spy –‘

 D’Artagnan blinks at her in confusion, takes a cautious look up and down the street and steers her into a side street.

‘Aramis was arrested?’

‘He was –‘ The words stick in her throat; it’s too awful, and she won’t pretend to him that she doesn’t know whose fault it is. ‘He’ll be flogged. On Friday, if we can’t – we _have to_ stop it, d’Artagnan. If I hadn’t asked him to help me, he wouldn’t-‘ her voice breaks but she ploughs on, ‘-he wouldn’t be there. It’s my responsibility.’

He pats her on the arm consolingly, but the way he looks at her, the shock is a little stark in his eyes, like he never could have even imagined this, and he doesn’t know what to do with the revelation that Constance has brought such catastrophe to one of his closest friends. Shame judders in her belly, and she looks down, avoiding his eyes.

‘Alright,’ he says, as steadily as he can. ‘Alright, well, we’ve dealt with worse.’ He smiles at her, cheeks too tight, and she has to glare even harder to stop the tears falling. ‘We’ll go to the Garrison and see what the others know, and then we’ll go see Aramis.’

‘What?’ she jerks back; he’s still holding her shoulders so she doesn’t move much. Immediately, she feels guilty all over again, because she has no right to recoil from the idea of facing Aramis. 

‘Because he’s the only one who might be able to tell you this isn’t your fault so you’ll actually listen,’ d’Artagnan explains, eyebrows raised, his face looks so stupidly young when he does that. With his thumb, he catches a tear that has just barely slipped past her eyelashes. ‘And because it’s boring as a Huguenot altarpiece in the Chatelet, and he’ll want visitors.’

She’s still too shaky to actually laugh, but she sort of headbutts him in the shoulder for being an idiot, and he obligingly wraps his arms around her back.

 

*

 

He’s been waiting less than an hour when Treville’s step echoes in the hallway. Aramis can tell by the sound that he’s furious. He hauls himself to his feet with one hand on the wall – his legs are starting to feel shaky with lack of sleep.

‘Aramis,’ Treville greets him, surveying him sternly through the bars. ‘The king won’t see me. I’ll go back when he’s had time to calm down. In the meantime, you can explain what the devil you and Madame Bonacieux were doing in that man’s house.’

Aramis moves closer, and grips the bars with one hand to stop himself swaying. He squints up the corridor and there’s nobody nearby, but he keeps his voice soft anyway.

‘He’s up to something, Captain.’ Hurriedly he explains Constance’s friendship with Auverne’s wife, the vicious threats he sent to her to warn her off, their less than fruitful inspection of his business pursuits and finally the visit to the Auverne house and the Comtesse’s vague information about the Friday morning shipment. Treville listens without relaxing his set frown.

‘It has to be serious,’ Aramis insists. ‘He’s risked a great deal to throw us off – first sending that filth to Constance, when she is so close to the queen – and now this – the Cardinal doesn’t allow anyone to call in favours very often, and Auverne’s used a lot of sway to get me arrested…’

Treville nods, almost imperceptibly. ‘And sentenced to flogging,’ he adds in a murmur, and Aramis’ hand tenses on the bar he’s still holding. ‘The others know of all this, presumably?’

‘Yes,’ Aramis admits. ‘We – ah – we’d hoped to have more concrete evidence before bringing the matter to you.’

 Treville gives him a flat look. ‘No doubt.’

 ‘Athos has the letter Auverne sent to Constance. Get him to show you,’ Aramis presses.

 ‘He’s out searching for Madame Bonacieux.’

 ‘Searching for her-? Wasn’t she -?’

 ‘We lost her after the – _trial_.’ He spits the word bitterly, and Aramis feels faintly warmed by the captain being angry on his behalf.

 ‘She’s not safe,’ he says immediately. ‘She knows too much, and that man – captain, he’ll…’

 ‘Precisely the reason Athos is searching for her, when we both know he would be here if he could. I will have someone send word to you as soon as she is found.’

 The Captain can’t linger long, but he promises to return and petition the king later in the day, and to keep Aramis informed of any developments. Privately, Aramis is doubtful that pleas will do any good. Only discrediting Auverne will help him now, and the shipment the Comtesse warned them about is not due in the harbour until Friday morning – the same morning Aramis’ sentence is to be carried out. 

 He’s an optimist by nature, but he’s seen the things the lash can do to a man’s back.

 

*

 

They take the back streets to the Garrison, because if Constance felt like the subject of gossip _before_ , now it feels like a beacon is shining above her head; she sees recognition flare in strangers’ eyes and watches them turn to whisper behind their hands. The things they must be saying about her – after what Auverne said – she doubts the queen will ever accept her back. A rush of horror suddenly swamps her at that thought – because where could she go – even _if_ Jacques would take her back, the idea is abhorrent, and – her only option may be to join a convent. God knows; she’ll owe some prayers, if they all come through this intact.

Someone lurches out of a connecting street, directly into her path. 

She’s distracted enough that d’Artagnan tensing doesn’t immediately get her attention, and from nowhere there are men surrounding them. D’Artagnan’s sword is out already, clanging loudly against that of a man lunging at them from the shadows.

 ‘The woman! Kill the woman!’ someone shouts, and d’Artagnan slashes at him with a snarl of rage. Another man approaches her from the side – she dressed for the queen’s parlour this morning, she hadn’t thought to go armed, for heavens’ sake – so she dodges his grabbing hands and pulls him forward to meet her raised knee. He squawks indignantly, pausing to clutch at himself like a fool, and it gives her time to seize the bucket left on a nearby doorstep and swing it at his head.

‘Constance!’

She looks up in time to catch the pistol d’Artagnan tosses to her by the handle, and fumbles slightly trying to spin it in her hands before she can get the shot off. The crack of it is startling even over the sound of d’Artagnan’s sword. There are two dead men in the street now, and d’Artagnan duels the third fuelled by pure rage, dodging what is nearly a lucky thrust before managing to disarm his opponent with a slice to the back of the wrist and a well-placed kick.

Constance’s knuckles are white around the grip of the spent pistol.

‘Who paid you?’ d’Artagnan spits, holding the sword to the survivor’s throat.

 ‘Fuck you,’ he spits back, and gets a fist to the ear for his rudeness. D’Artagnan has had a long ride and come home to bad news, and his patience has all been spent on Constance.

‘I’ll ask one more time,’ he hisses, holding his prisoner by the bruised ear. 

‘Don’t bother,’ Constance says. ‘I recognise the livery.’

D’Artagnan blinks at her. ‘Auverne?’ he demands, and she nods grimly.

‘You can’t prove it,’ spits the man on the ground, and d’Artagnan tugs cruelly on the ear he’s got hold of.

 ‘They were here to kill you,’ he says to her, voice shaking with outrage at the idea.

‘I heard,’ Constance says. She feels, ridiculously, much calmer after the attempt on her life.

At d’Artagnan’s direction, she strips the man of his belt and uses it to strap his arms together, all without her protector relinquishing his grip. When she’s finished d’Artagnan roughly hauls him upright and shifts his hand to the scruff of his neck, dragging him along to the Garrison like a disobedient dog.

 

 

*

 

At the sound of shuffling steps in the hallway, Aramis unfolds himself from the floor and moves over to the bars, scowling. ‘You shouldn’t have come over here, with your leg,’ he tells Porthos.

 ‘S’fine Aramis, I’m more worried about you.’

‘After you burned your damned crutch,’ Aramis reproaches him.

 ‘Don’t need a crutch; I’ve brought Athos.’

 The surrogate crutch raises his eyebrows and says ‘Perhaps we could come to the matter at hand.’

 ‘Which matter did you have in mind?’ Aramis asks, a little caustically. Athos sighs at him, but also looks _guilty_ , which makes Aramis feel guilty in turn.

 Porthos just looks furious, glaring around at the bars, the Red Guards loitering at the far end of the corridor, the sword belt missing from Aramis’ own waist, as if each of these things is a grave and personal insult to him.

 ‘Did you find Constance?’

 Athos, to his dismay, shakes his head. ‘There are others looking for her. She wouldn’t stop to speak to me, after they dragged you out.’

 ‘She could be in danger,’ Aramis says tersely.

 ‘She’ll be alright,’ Porthos says gently. ‘Tough woman, Constance.’

 Aramis nods, not entirely reassured, and tries to relax his white-knuckles grip on the bars. Athos reaches through the bars to put a hand on his arm. ‘Treville is trying to secure a meeting with Richelieu. If he can persuade him of our suspicions…’

 ‘I imagine Richelieu would quite enjoy seeing me flogged, regardless,’ Aramis says, too flippantly.

 Porthos growls, says ‘Fucking _hell_ , Aramis.’

 He sobers and scrapes a hand through his hair. ‘I know.’

 Athos gives them both a flat look. ‘If he can persuade Richelieu, we may get a warrant to investigate Auverne more thoroughly. All we need is proof that he’s engaged in something illegal.’

 ‘What about the wife?’

 ‘What about her?’ Porthos says harshly.

 ‘She testified against you,’ Athos adds. ‘The story is that she gave evidence to the Cardinal in private, but was too distressed to appear in open court.’

 ‘It doesn’t mean anything; she’s terrified of him. Someone should be keeping an eye on her.’

 ‘How do you suggest we do that?’ Athos replies, failing to hide his exasperation. ‘Short of breaking into the house and carrying her off to protective custody…’

 Aramis turns his head away, huffing in frustration. He bangs the heel of his hand against the bars. ‘This is a mess,’ he mutters angrily.

 ‘S’not your fault,’ says Porthos.

 ‘I was careless. I got carried away and didn’t _think_.’

 ‘That is more or less your usual style,’ Athos puts in dryly, ‘but none of us saw this coming. It’s no use blaming yourself.’

 He knows that. It doesn’t help. Constance is in danger, that poor terrified woman is in the lion’s den, and there’s no telling who Auverne will come after next, and Aramis is _useless_ in the Chatelet.

 

*

 

They arrive at the Garrison the same time as the Captain, who raises his eyebrows at the sight of them.

 ‘Madame Bonacieux,’ he says gruffly, ignoring, for the moment, the man d’Artagnan is still holding by the back of his collar. ‘I have men out searching for you.’

 ‘My apologies, Captain,’ she says, feeling like a chastened child under his disapproval.

 ‘Captain, we were attacked,’ d’Artagnan puts in. ‘They were after Constance.’

Treville looks back to her in alarm, satisfies himself that she is intact before he can speak. ‘This is one of the attackers?’ he asks sharply.

 ‘Auverne’s man,’ Constance says savagely.

 ‘I stole the livery,’ says the prisoner, sneering at her. ‘You can’t prove anything,’ he adds. D’Artagnan shakes him by the collar.

 ‘We’ll see about that,’ he hisses. Treville ushers them into the courtyard, and another musketeer helps d’Artagnan haul the prisoner into a storeroom and secure him to a chair.

 In the doorway beside the captain, Constance watches, tense.  If they can connect this to Auverne, if they can prove he ordered the attack, if they can link that to whatever he is trying to export with Friday’s shipment, if they can get the King or the Cardinal to listen to their evidence…

Unfortunately, time is not on their side.


	7. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and the musketeers get closer to the truth; Aramis is running out of time.

Constance sighs, wrapping her arms more tightly across her ribs. D’Artagnan has turned away, cradling his knuckles. It’s getting harder for him to keep his rage in check; if the Captain weren’t with them, she thinks he might have killed the prisoner by now.

Treville glares down at the man still bound to a chair in the dusty storeroom.

‘I’ll ask again,’ he says, lethally calm. ‘Who paid you to attack this woman?’

 The man lifts his head, blood dripping from his chin, and leers nastily at Constance. ‘No-one paid me,’ he slurs. ‘Fancied a bit of her for ourselves, we did…’

Without looking, Constance shoots out a hand to grab at d’Artagnan, and catches his arm in time to feel the jolt of sheer fury go through him.

‘Heard half the musketeers have had her,’ adds the bound man. ‘Must be quite something, no?’

He’s looking directly at d’Artagnan now; it’s almost as if he _wants_ him to kill him in a burst of fury. The Captain says flatly, ‘You’re lying.’ He turns sharply and takes two strides over to where Constance is standing. ‘Madame, there is no reason you should have to be here for this.’

Constance shakes her head tightly. ‘I need to be here,’ she bites out, narrowing her eyes. D’Artagnan frowns at her. Treville shrugs and turns back to the prisoner.

‘This will go badly for you if you don’t tell us,’ he says reasonably. ‘Loyalty to a man who’s about to be arrested for treason will get you nowhere.’

The man’s jaw tightens obstinately, and he spits at Treville, his saliva flecked with blood from his split lip. ‘I’m no traitor,’ he says scornfully. ‘Just a red-blooded man who fancied her company, like I said.’

D’Artagnan is across the room in a second, and has twisted the prisoner’s ear between two strong fingers. His face screws up in discomfort, but he clamps his lips shut. ‘How long have you been working for Auverne?’ d’Artagnan snaps.

‘Never – never heard of him.’

‘How much did he pay you?’

 ‘Fuck you.’

 Constance takes half a step forward. ‘D’Artagnan…’

 He tenses without looking at her, and after a moment he releases the man with a harsh shove to the side of his head, and strides out of the room, muttering something about fetching his pistol. The Captain casts a look at Constance, and she hesitates a second before following d’Artagnan.

 The shadows are getting longer in the courtyard. A few musketeers she doesn’t know are milling about; a stable boy is leading two horses in a slow circuit around the yard. D’Artagnan has stopped at the table near the base of the stairs, his hands flat on the table surface and his head hanging. She approaches tentatively, and he shudders himself upright before she reaches him.

‘Sorry. I’m coming back,’ he mutters.

‘I think the Captain can probably manage for now,’ she says gently. He sniffs, stays tense and upright for a moment, and then slumps down all at once onto the bench, one hand coming up to scrub at his eyes.

‘You haven’t slept,’ Constance says softly, the familiar sensation of guilt shivering on the back of her neck.

 ‘I’m fine,’ he insists, squinting his eyes open again. ‘I just – it’s hard to hear him talk about you like that.’

 ‘Tell me about it,’ says Constance dryly.

 He meets her eye. ‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.’ She shrugs. It was, but she won’t hold it against him. She sits beside him, not too close, but close enough for the fabric of her skirts to brush his thigh. ‘I just… I thought you’d be safe. With the queen, in the palace – this was my fault. My idea. I thought if you were closer to me I could protect you, and instead I just got you in a whole different kind of trouble…’

 Constance stares at him, head bowed and chewing his lip. There’s very little between them in age, but there are times when she feels very young beside him, with his brash confidence and his strength; there are other times, like now, when she sees his naïveté and feels like she’s seen far more of the world than he has. D’Artagnan had his provincial family life torn from him brutally when he came to Paris, and he’s grown a lot since joining the musketeers, but the subtleties of respectability and the mundane struggles of ordinary life are alien to him. He was a farm boy, then a soldier. He’s never been an anomaly, an outsider, in the way Constance is now.

 She doesn’t know what to say to him. Then he looks up at her, pale and angry and guilty, and she does.

 ‘What a load of rubbish,’ she says firmly. ‘You’ve been away from Paris this whole time; none of this had anything to do with you.’

 There’s a prickle in her stomach that wants to point out again how actually this is all _her_ fault, but she senses that it won’t help either of them. Instead, she shifts slightly so her arm is pressed gently against his, and leans her head onto his shoulder.

 ‘Auverne is up to something. We’re going to find out what, and we’ll take him down.’ She says it with more certainty than she feels, but nonetheless she does feel comforted by the weight of her own words.

 ‘If that bastard won’t talk…’ d’Artagnan says.

 Constance shushes him. She doesn’t need to hear him list all the obstacles that have been a mantra in her own head for the last several hours. She hasn’t stopped thinking about Aramis in the Chatelet. Looking at the man who attacked her bound to a chair, furious and bleeding, she keeps thinking about the state Aramis might be in by now. Her attention to the interrogation keeps being displaced by the thought of blood dripping into Aramis’ kind eyes.

 Heavy footsteps in the gateway draw her attention, and she feels d’Artagnan straighten at her side as Athos and Porthos – awkward lumbering shape of them, Athos tucked underneath Porthos’ arm to help him limp along – trudge into the Garrison. D’Artagnan disengages himself from her side and walks towards them across the shadowy courtyard.

 ‘How’s Aramis?’ he says.

 ‘D’Artagnan!’ Porthos says. ‘I forgot you were due back today.’ His smile of greeting is quickly clouded over, but he gives d’Artagnan an unsteady half-hug, still gripping Athos’ shoulder with the other hand.

 Athos nods to him and claps him on the shoulder, flicking his eyes to Constance and favouring her with a tiny nod as well. ‘Aramis is alright. They made us leave him; hopefully he’ll sleep.’ Both of them are scowling as Athos speaks, but Constance tries to feel reassured.

 ‘Glad to see you’re alright,’ Porthos says to her seriously.

 She nods. ‘Ah. Well, while we’re on the subject – something did happen earlier today.’

 She exchanges a look with d’Artagnan, and he gives her a grim nod. ‘There’s someone in the storeroom you should meet.’

 Athos raises an eyebrow at them and follows them over to the store, helping Porthos to hobble along beside him. The Captain is leaning against a table with his arms crossed and his head bowed; the prisoner is slumped sullenly in his ropes. Treville looks up and nods to Athos and Porthos.

 ‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this?’ Athos says, leaning one shoulder against the door frame.

 

*

 

A messenger arrives late in the evening calling Constance back to the palace, and d’Artagnan escorts her. She finds the queen pacing her parlour alone, fingers picking anxiously at the fabric of her skirts.

‘Your majesty?’

 ‘Constance! Thank God. I’ve been so worried.’

 Constance shuffles into the room, contrite. She’d been too overwrought after the trial to think about anyone who might have worried about her when she took off on her own. Quite apart from that, she’d been convinced that the queen would want nothing more to do with her, after the Comte called her a ‘musketeer’s whore’ in front of the whole court.

 ‘I’m sorry, your majesty. I was – distracted.’

 ‘Of course, of course.’ Anne clutches at both of her hands. ‘I tried to speak to the king. He wouldn’t listen. I… I’ve had no news.’

 Constance isn’t sure what news will reassure the queen. She seems more affected by this than Constance expected, since she claimed not to know Lucille all that well, and Constance herself is still a fairly new friend to the queen.

 She puts a shaky hand on her back and pats it awkwardly. ‘Everyone is alright. We are – that is – the musketeers are working on getting everything – sorted out.’ She leads her over to the window seat – giving out on the blackness of the dark gardens at this time of the night – and they sit together. The queen feels very fragile under her hand, as unsettled as Constance herself feels.

 ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like this,’ Anne says, very quietly. ‘I shouldn’t be upset.’

 Constance blinks at her in confusion, and settles for patting her on the back again.

 She stays with the queen until late in the night, not talking much but taking some comfort from her presence. Eventually, she persuades Anne to go and sleep, which allows her to creep to her own bed for a few hours. In the morning, she struggles out of bed and checks on Anne, who seems to have restored her composure since last night, though she is still a shade paler than usual.

 Constance excuses herself late in the morning, anxious to find out about any developments in the investigation. She hurries along the corridor trying not to visibly hurry, takes a corner slightly too fast and has to skid a little to prevent herself walking directly into the tall figure coming the other way. A glimpse of richly trimmed black sleeve makes her stomach clench in horror for a second, but when she looks up it is not Auverne but the Cardinal himself standing before her.

 His mouth twitches in what looks like amusement. ‘Madame Bonacieux,’ he says gracefully, inclining his head. She knows better than to interpret this as courtesy.

 ‘Your Eminence,’ she says, bobbing an inadequate curtsey. Her voice is a little breathless.

 ‘I hope you are quite recovered from yesterday’s drama,’ he says disinterestedly, already looking past her. She sidesteps into his way.

 ‘I should be glad of the chance to discuss it with you, your Eminence,’ she says, more boldly than she feels.

 His lip curls. ‘Unfortunately, I am very busy.’

 ‘Your Eminence – suppose I had suspicions that the – allegations made yesterday were… were designed as a diversion from some more serious crime.’

 His glare, birdlike down his nose at her, is impatient but perhaps a shade curious. ‘I would say that your suspicions count for very little indeed without proof, Madame Bonacieux. Need I remind you that you are neither a member of the royal council nor a musketeer?’ His scathing look runs up and down her body and she shudders lightly.

 ‘But,’ she presses, ‘if there were proof –‘

 ‘I would suggest that you find it quickly. Tomorrow morning, is it not, your friend is sentenced to the lash?’

 She forces herself not to look away, she knows he’s deliberately trying to make her flinch. ‘Your advice is much appreciated, your Eminence,’ she says, as insolently as she dares. He smirks, just faintly, and sidesteps around her to sweep off along the corridor.

 When she arrives at the Garrison, she finds Porthos and Treville working on the on-going interrogation of the stubborn prisoner. Athos and d’Artagnan, they tell her, left that morning to ask questions at the docks and identify the shipment due to leave on the following morning’s tide, the one Lucille warned them about only two days ago. Watching the interrogation she feels useless and a little sick, so she asks the Captain to write her a note to get her past the Red Guard and makes for the Chatelet.

 She’s expecting the sniggering, the whispered insults and catcalls, and does her best to remain icily unaffected. She hands Treville’s note to the sergeant, who eyes her suspiciously but doesn’t join in with the others and agrees with a grunt to take her into the prison.

 She’s never been inside before. It’s dark even in the mid afternoon, with very few windows, the stone walls cold and suffocating. There are voices echoing down the passages from elsewhere in the building, pleas and groans and raging and manic laughter. She regrets coming alone.  As soon as she’s had the thought, she is ashamed of it. Aramis has been here alone since yesterday evening.

 His cell is in one of the lighter corridors, its whole wall barred so he has no chance of privacy. He’s sitting on the ground with this arms resting on his knees. He sees the sergeant leading her before he sees Constance and looks up wearily.

 ‘Ronsard. Any news?’

 ‘Visitor,’ says the sergeant, nudging Constance forwards. Aramis lurches to his feet like he’s been shocked.

 ‘Constance! Thank God you’re alright.’ He nods to Ronsard. ‘Thank you.’

 ‘I’ll give you as long as I can,’ says the sergeant, and retreats to the far end of the passage.

 Hesitantly, Constance shuffles close to the barred wall. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.’

 Aramis shrugs. He looks pretty awful, now she can see him properly, pale and bruised-looking around the eyes, very slight tremors in his hands. ‘I’m just glad you’re not hurt.’

 ‘Have you slept?’ she demands, glancing around the sparse cell and wrinkling her nose in anger when she sees there is no chair, no blanket, just grubby rushes on the floor and a bucket in one corner.

 ‘A bit,’ Aramis says distractedly. ‘Is everyone else alright?’

 ‘Mm.’ She reaches through the bars to him, grips his fingers tightly before letting go. ‘Let’s sit.’ She tugs him down to sit on the floor; she can’t watch his legs trembling like that. He looks a bit surprised but doesn’t resist, and she can see the relief in him once he’s settled on the ground. This skirt will be ruined, most likely, but she’s never short of clothes in her line of work.

 ‘D’Artagnan’s back,’ she says first, and his face relaxes a little, smiling faintly. ‘He and Athos are at the docks now, gathering evidence.’ She doesn’t know if there’s any evidence there for them to gather, but Aramis deserves some hope. ‘He got back last night. There was – we were attacked.’

 ‘What?’ He’s gripping one of the bars between them, eyes wide.

 ‘Some men must have followed me from – well. After the trial, yesterday. Luckily, d’Artagnan was with me when they caught up to us. Three of them. We took one alive.’

 ‘Auverne sent men after you?’

 ‘We can’t prove it was him yet. But – yes.’

 Aramis blinks at her dumbly. ‘It’s – well. He must really be rattled. I – but you’re both alright?’

 ‘We’re fine. I promise. Treville is interrogating the survivor, but he hasn’t…’

 She trails off. There’s some commotion at the end of the passage, which is sharply terminated by Athos just shoving his way past the Red Guards and striding down the corridor towards them, d’Artagnan on his heels. Neither of them looks surprised to find her there, either because they’ve spoken to Treville, or just because she really is so predictable. Aramis staggers to his feet again.

 ‘Any news?’ he croaks, then stops himself and smiles sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Welcome back, d’Artagnan.’

 ‘I’m not offended, in the circumstances,’ d’Artagnan says, clasping Aramis’ hand through the barred wall. ‘We’ve found the ship the Comtesse mentioned to you. It leaves on the dawn tide tomorrow, due for Bilbao.’

 ‘Spain…’ Aramis says, exchanging a glance with Athos, who shrugs.

 ‘We’re not at war yet. Trade routes are still open.’

 ‘What’s the cargo?’

 ‘We don’t know,’ d’Artagnan says, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. ‘It’s being held in a locked warehouse until an hour before the ship leaves.’

 Aramis raises his eyebrows. ‘That's unusual.’

 Athos nods swiftly. ‘We will be there an hour before dawn to intercept the cargo. Everything about this suggests that our answers will be there. Our only problem is timing.’

 ‘Porthos and the Captain will be here to stall the Red Guards and the Cardinal and buy us as much time as we can. As soon as we have anything that’ll hold up to the Cardinal, we’ll bring it here and denounce Auverne on the spot.’

 Constance glances between them. Aramis, if he has doubts, is doing a good job of hiding them, or perhaps, as sleep-deprived and strung out as he is, he hasn’t fully digested how fragile a plan this is. Athos, grave and serious as ever, doesn’t look uncertain, but he doesn’t look happy either. D’Artagnan is thrumming with nervous energy.

 Auverne took a risk yesterday, sending men to kill Constance for what she knows, when she didn’t even have enough to prove her suspicions. He doesn’t strike her as the sort of man who leaves anything to chance.

 Their planning is cut off prematurely by the change of guard. The sergeant relieving Ronsard marches down the corridor officiously, rattling his keys.

 ‘This isn’t a fucking tavern, musketeers. You can talk to the Spanish shit tomorrow, after he’s been flogged. Sure he’ll be very fucking chatty then.’

 Constance steps closer to the bars on instinct, shocked, and she snatches at Aramis’ fingers again, but he gently pushes her away with a thin, tense smile. D’Artagnan puts a hand on her shoulder, and Athos exchanges a long look with Aramis – they always seem able to communicate a lot by these looks; it contributes a great deal to the mystique of the so-called ‘Inseparables.’

The sergeant beats his sword hard against the bars, and repeats ‘Out!’ in a voice much louder than necessary. Aramis steps back from the bars, hands raised peaceably. Athos glares ferociously at the Red Guard as they make their way out.

 The corridor feels heavier and more suffocating on the way back out. Time feels compressed; she can hear the Cardinal’s cruel reminder interlaced with that of the foul-mouthed Red Guard, running through her head. The tide, and Aramis’ sentence, are at dawn. They have twelve hours.


	8. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday morning. The tide is at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken me AGES!

Even so late in the spring, it’s cold by the river bank in the dark before dawn. Athos is some distance ahead of them, a vague shape under his dark cloak, moving silently in the shadows of the warehouse. D’Artagnan, pistol in hand already, is quiet at Constance’s side – not wearing his cloak because gallant fool that he is, he has already given it to Constance.

She expected a fight when she told them she was going with them. But Athos just gave her a calm, measuring look and then nodded, and that was the end of that. She has two pistols in the deep pockets of her skirt and a knife on her belt, and she knows how to use all of them.

The docks are quiet, but not deserted. Someone is scrubbing the deck of a barge several berths down from their quarry, and two sailors are smoking in the dim predawn watching him. Auverne’s warehouse is still locked, but they have a good view of the doorway here, as well as the gangway to the ship.

It doesn’t make her heart stop pounding, but she keeps reminding herself anyway. They’re here. They’re ready. Auverne won’t get anything past them now.

Athos gives a low whistle. Two men are approaching the warehouse entrance. The leader mutters something, takes a ring of keys from his belt, and unlocks the door. As he slips inside, Athos seizes the second man from behind with a hand over his mouth, and d’Artagnan catches the heavy door as it swings closed and slips inside.

Athos knocks out the furiously struggling man with a swift knock to the temple, and lets him down gently in a heap in the shadow next to the door. There’s some commotion indoors, and then d’Artagnan sticks his head back out again, hurrying them in. Constance goes first, Athos following her, walking backwards so he can check that nobody has seen them yet.

Inside, it’s dark enough that her eyes take several moments to adjust; after a moment, there’s just enough pale light falling in between the slats that she can make out the stacks of boxed goods in neat rows along the floor. D’Artagnan runs his fingers along one crate, testing whether the lid will come loose. It all looks innocuous enough. Fear grips Constance, because it actually never occurred to her until now that they might not find the evidence that they need. By the labels on the boxes, Auverne trades in everything from metal goods to fabrics to dried herbs and apothecary’s wares. Nothing suspicious.

A muffled whimper startles her, somewhere ahead. A quick glance at Athos and d’Artagnan confirms that neither of them made such a sound, and she hurries towards it, following the row of crates, coming around the corner at the end. 

There’s another box there, a larger one, with a gap of six inches or so just below the lid on two sides. There isn’t enough light to see, but something in the box is certainly breathing, snuffling gently, and perhaps Auverne is trading in hunting dogs or something but…

D’Artagnan stops dead behind her, and then tentatively reaches out a hand to tap at the box. ‘… Monsieur?’ he says faintly. ‘Or Madame…?’

Athos has retreated to the entrance, where they left the unconscious man with the keys. He re-joins them swiftly, turning shrewd eyes from the ring of keys in his hand to the padlock. Constance screws up her courage and tries to peer in. There’s a huddled something – someone – in there, the face tucked away or in shadow, she can only make out the shape of them. The occupant gives another whimper and a harsh shudder at the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice, and tries to huddle up tighter still at the sound of the key in the padlock.

Cold horror is turning in Constance’s stomach. As Athos manages to open the crate she jolts forwards almost involuntarily and croaks ‘… Lucille?’

The face which looks up at her, gaunt and terrified, is not Lucille’s, but a dark-haired woman maybe seven or eight years older, who, she sees, is holding a small child of four or five swaddled tight to her chest.

 

-/-

 

Aramis dozes with his chin slumped to his chest, huddled up against the early chill. It’s not light outside yet, so far as he can see the gleam from the window up the passage. They’ll be coming for him soon. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t believe the others will find what they are looking for. But he’s old enough to know better than to entertain stupid hope, and he knows they’ll be lucky to find what they’re looking for _in time_.

He can survive this. Everything he’s lived through; everything he’s done; he can survive this.

The first footsteps he hears are firm but not heavy, and only one man by the sound of it. Still, he won’t leap to his feet to appease his jailers, so he just lifts his head, letting it press wearily against the cold stone behind him.

A soft voice calls his name and he jolts out of his stupor. ‘Aramis?’

He rolls to his knees and uses the bars in front of him to haul himself to his feet. ‘Captain?’

‘They are not far behind me. We’ll need to delay them for as long as we can. Porthos is outside.’

 Aramis nods, a little dizzy.

‘The others have gone to the docks,’ Treville continues, wearing a stern expression, Aramis suspects largely to disguise his agitation. ‘Once they have what is needed to convince the Cardinal, they will bring it here. Your sentence is due to be carried out in the courtyard at sunrise.’

‘Yes,’ Aramis says, for want of anything more useful; his voice comes out more hoarsely than he’d like.

‘Have you eaten anything?’

Aramis blinks. ‘Yesterday morning, when Ronsard came on shift,’ he says absently, a little taken aback by the Captain’s growl.

‘I’m sorry, Aramis, I should have thought. They brought you no food?’

He shivers, and flicks an involuntary look to the plate he tried to push as far away as possible down the corridor. His nose wrinkles. ‘Nothing edible.’

The captain follows his glance, and goes silently to retrieve the plate, holding it distastefully at arm’s length. ‘Hold on,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

Aramis leans his brow against the bars and listens to his footsteps retreat, then to his own heartbeat in the quiet until Treville can be heard returning.

‘The kitchens are locked, but there was some bread in the guardroom. It isn’t much.’

 Aramis accepts the offering silently, nodding his thanks. If this doesn’t go the way they hope, he’ll need his strength. The captain watches him, his face impassive, his throat quivering with fury.

More footsteps echo down the corridor; heavier boots than those the captain wears, and several pairs this time. One or two call out obscenities as they approach.

‘Ready for the lash, Spanish fuck?’

 Aramis winces, swallowing painfully around the last of the dry bread, and Treville shoots an appalled glance at him. Turning from Aramis, he steps into the light.

‘What did you say, soldier?’ Treville demands.

‘Captain Treville. My apologies, I did not…’

 Treville’s level glare does not flicker and cannot be escaped; Aramis knows well the feeling of squirming under it and gets some satisfaction from watching this bastard do so now.

‘You are here early,’ the Captain says eventually. ‘You’re not due for a half hour, at least.’

‘Orders from His Eminence,’ says the guard, back on surer ground.

Treville raises his eyebrows, still standing subtly between the guards and Aramis’ cell. ‘Of what nature?’ he says patiently. 

The guard clears his throat. ‘The Comte d’Auverne has requested that the prisoner be gagged during his sentence, to prevent any further abuse of His Lordship’s reputation.’

Aramis’ eyebrows shoot up. ‘…abuse of his reputation?’ he echoes, softly, and the guard’s head snaps up, looking as if he would dearly love to curse Aramis to silence, but his impulse is curtailed by Treville’s presence.

‘That is not usual procedure,’ Treville says calmly, immovable as a stone.

The younger guard, in the shadow until now, says defensively, ‘The Cardinal agreed to it.’ 

Treville favours him, too, with a long glare. ‘This is not the Cardinal’s business,’ he says lightly.

‘It’s been authorised, sir,’ says the other guard.

‘By the King?’

They shuffle their feet. 

‘Clearly not. Until I see orders endorsed by a royal seal, I see no reason to permit this change to ordinary procedure.’

The guards stare angrily for a moment or two, and finally salute and turn back up the passage. Treville, very softly, sighs in relief.

‘My thanks, captain,’ Aramis croaks.

‘It won’t stall them long. The Cardinal has access to the royal seal, in order to carry out any business the king takes no interest in. It’s just a matter of paperwork. But it might give us a half-hour’s grace.’

Aramis nods, huffing his breath out as evenly as he can. ‘Auverne is spooked,’ he says. ‘We must be on the right track.’

‘He seems convinced you know something that could damage him. How much did you actually get from the wife?’

 Aramis pulls a face. ‘Not a great deal. “Something against the king,” she thought, but we don’t actually know how reliable…’

‘You think she was lying?’ the Captain says sharply.

‘No. But she’s terrified of him, and she wasn’t too coherent.’

 Treville nods, folding his arms across his chest. ‘He’s a very influential man, these days.’

Aramis looks up quickly at the tone, and has to quell a moment of dizziness from moving too fast. ‘What do you know of him, Captain?’

Treville tilts his head. ‘Very little. He rose up from nowhere only a few months ago; made vast donations to the Cardinal’s funds and then married into an old family… Money like that can build influence very quickly.’ 

‘Where did he come from? Was nobody suspicious, if he came up from nowhere…?’

‘He was a businessman.’ The Captain shrugs, mouth twisted a little bitterly. ‘Not worth knowing, by court standards, until he was rich enough to ensnare a noble bride. These things can turn around very rapidly, I’m afraid.’

Aramis falls silent, thinking. His brain feels sluggish and useless; he needs badly to sleep.

 Auverne wants him gagged. Since the man has already been accused of mistreating his wife in open court, and suffered no consequences at all, there must be something else they know, or _might_ know, that actually could sink him. A tradesman, raised suddenly into the nobility, buying influence with the Cardinal and the King. What is he hiding?

 ‘Do you know what name he went by, before he was made Comte?’ he asks slowly.

Treville shrugs, and offers a thin, wry smile. ‘Sorry. You’ve got the wrong man for court gossip. If he’d been an obscure military commander from the provinces…’ 

He tips his head in understanding. ‘The suddenness of it is odd, isn’t it? If nobody had heard of the man, and suddenly he’s got the coin to buy influence with the Cardinal and an aristocratic wife…’

Treville watches him patiently, waiting for him to get to the point.

‘What if there was some outside agent who wanted him close to the King? Who… engineered his sudden rise in fortunes?’

 The Captain frowns. ‘It’s possible. But I don’t know how you’d prove it.’

 Aramis sniffs in frustration, knocking his knuckles lightly against the wall. ‘If I had time to _think_ …’ he mutters, and trails off at the sound of boots coming down the hallway again.

‘Sealed orders, Captain Treville,’ announces the guard carrying them, handing a paper over. The Captain unfolds it. The ink is smudged from rushing, but it does unfortunately look legitimate.

‘May I ask why the Cardinal is so keen to take direction from the Comte d’Auverne?’ he asks testily.

The guard shrugs, rattling through the keys at his belt. Aramis takes an involuntary step back away from the bars. ‘Take it up with His Eminence, Captain, I don’t ask questions. Just following orders.’ To Aramis, he adds, ‘Don’t move, musketeer.’

Aramis watches him silently, standing as upright as he can. There are several more Red Guards in the hallway; he catches sight of Ronsard among them and is grateful that it’s him rather than the other sergeant.

‘I will certainly be speaking to the Cardinal about the way he and his men have handled this business,’ Treville says roughly, his gaze skating over the soldiers, slightly narrowed in the way Aramis has seen often, when the captain is scanning the ranks for guilty eyes.

Ronsard comes forward and gives Treville a respectful nod as he passes into the cell. ‘Orders’re orders, sir,’ he says gruffly. He’s holding a pair of manacles. ‘Alright, lad. Let’s see your hands.’ 

Aramis tips a glance to the ceiling in silent, swift prayer, and offers his wrists. Treville is watching closely, but Ronsard is no rougher than he needs to be. At one point he looks like he’d like to pat Aramis on the shoulder but restrains himself. Instead, he looks down and slowly, meticulously checks the manacles for weaknesses or rust.

‘Let’s not be all day about this, Sergeant,’ says the first guard, shoving forwards. He’s pulling something out of his pocket. ‘I have the gag here.’

‘Is this really necessary?’ Treville demands from the doorway.

 ‘You saw the order,’ says the guard, skirting pretty close to insubordination in Aramis’ opinion; the captain is too angry already to notice.

Aramis huffs angrily at the indignity but forces himself not to struggle. When the vile thing is between his teeth he immediately feels sick, though he knows it’s a trick of the mind rather than anything else.

Then again, though. It tastes peculiar.

He’s heard of prisoners sentenced to burn at the stake being gagged with rags soaked in laudanum as a paltry concession to mercy, but Aramis is a soldier and a medic and he knows the smell and taste of laudanum. This is not laudanum. This is _not laudanum._

He struggles, belatedly, a jolt of panic seizing his whole nervous system, and Ronsard, holding his right arm, tugs him straight again. ‘Hey, don’t lose your cool now, musketeer,’ he says, not unkindly.

Aramis growls, low in the throat and desperate, and looks frantically around trying to meet the captain’s eyes. He looks at him, trying to somehow communicate with just his eyes – I’ve been poisoned, _Captain I’ve been poisoned_ \- Treville, grim faced, gives him a steady, supportive nod.

 

 

-/-

 

 

‘Who are you?’ Constance asks, crouching. D’Artagnan shuffles forward beside her and the woman recoils violently. He retreats again, exchanging a look with Athos, and stands quietly, watching.

 The woman stares at her warily, but she seems less alarmed by Constance than by the musketeers; the child is watching her too with serious dark eyes.

‘Madame,’ Constance says softly, shuffling a little closer on her knees, ‘we can help you. If somebody has locked you up here – we can help you.’

‘They will take me away,’ the woman croaks, her eyes flicking up to the men again. Athos has retreated further, he’s sifting through the papers at the overseer’s desk in the corner.

‘Where?’ Constance asks, and then: ‘Why?’

 ‘They want to take me away…’

Constance glances over her shoulder at d’Artagnan – he looks anxious; she knows they’re short of time – and back to the woman. ‘This warehouse belongs to the Comte d’Auverne. Do you know anything about him? Was it him who locked you up?’

She shakes her head firmly, and Constance’s heart sinks. ‘No, no Comte. No Comte.’

 There’s a commotion outside the door, and Constance startles violently. Athos says tersely, ‘D’Artagnan,’ and the two of them go to investigate while she stays.

‘He’s no Comte,’ the woman mumbles, her breath hitching a little in fright.

‘Nobody will hurt you,’ Constance tries, wretchedly. Then she pauses. ‘Wait, what did you say? Who…?’

 ‘Antoine Boursay, my husband. He’s no Comte. He was never free to marry that Comtesse.’

Constance has reached for the woman’s hand without thinking, but she must look genuine enough, since the woman’s posture has eased a little and she’s now staring boldly out at Constance.

‘…Boursay,’ Constance says. The name rings a bell, and she remembers the snobbish courtiers in a corridor of the Louvre – _‘…Monsieur Boursay of the Rue des Mendiants. Were you never acquainted in the city?_

There’s the sound of fighting just outside, now; she hopes not more than Athos and d’Artagnan can handle.

‘Madame Boursay?’ she says at last, stepping back to give the woman space to stand. ‘Why did he – how did he…?’

‘They wanted him close to the court. His friends in Bilbao, wanted him to get friendly with the Cardinal… the King… Wanted him close so he could get information to send them.’

Constance gapes at her, her throat all but closed up. ‘He’s a spy…’

‘He couldn’t be at the court without being a nobleman, so they offered to help him.’

‘By – taking you –‘

The woman hugs her arms tighter around the child in her arms.

‘Why – Madame forgive my indelicacy, but why did he not kill you so he could legally marry into the aristocracy?’

Madame Boursay bends her head to kiss the sandy hair of the boy in her arms. ‘Couldn’t risk it. If his frail new wife is barren, he’ll kill her and take me back. I’ve borne him a son, after all.’

‘Constance!’

It’s d’Artagnan bellowing from the doorway, brandishing a sheaf of papers. She looks up to him, staying close to Madame Boursay.

‘Evidence,’ he says shortly. ‘Letters to the Prefecture of Bilbao. We’ve got him.’

Constance nods, squaring her jaw. ‘We can do better than that. This is his wife.’ She turns back, urgency throbbing in her blood. ‘Madame, I promise we will keep you and your son safe. There is very little time; I swear I will explain fully later, but first we must stop your husband before he can hurt anyone else.’

The woman’s fierce dark eyes narrow, and she nods. Constance can still hear swordplay outside; d’Artagnan has dashed back out to aid Athos. Gripping Madame Boursay by the hand that isn’t clamped around her child, she rushes to follow.

 


	9. Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auverne is exposed. Something is wrong with Aramis.

He walks up the corridor flanked by Ronsard and the other guard. Treville is behind him, and his attempts to look over his shoulder and catch the captain’s eye earn him a hard jab in the ribs. He stumbles, more than once; his legs are weak from the last few days; he’s hardly even looking where they’re going.

All his focus is on _not_ swallowing, as his mouth floods with saliva around the gag. He worries at it with teeth and tongue, but he’s just making it worse, he can’t spit it out; his hands twitch automatically as if to tug on it and are firmly yanked away. It’s getting hard to breathe around the rag, its peculiar noxious taste muddying his sinuses.

The light is shockingly bright even at dawn. He’s vaguely aware of a few more Red Guards milling around the edges of the yard. The Cardinal is just arriving, looking grumpy, swathed in a cloak, and – he realises with a jolt – Auverne is standing on the raised platform at one side. His expression is smugly satisfied; Aramis thinks he sees him twitch a cruel smile on catching his eye. Military disciplinaries are not usually open to the public but clearly the bastard has pulled some strings for the opportunity to spectate on this, this –

Squinting, he manages to focus on the pole they’re hauling him towards, and his stomach clenches unpleasantly. He forgets not to swallow for a moment and chokes on his own saliva, his back heaving.

Behind him, he hears Porthos murmur angrily to the Captain; can’t make out the words at this distance. Usually he’d take some comfort from Porthos' presence, but just now it’s taking everything he has just to breathe, to keep breathing, and not to fall.

Ronsard pats him on the back as he struggles to contain the choking and breathe through his nose. The other guard attaches his shackles to a chain on the post, hauling them up so that his elbows are at eye-level. He presses his streaming eyes against his own upper arm, trying and failing again to spit.

 ‘Alright?’ Ronsard mutters to him doubtfully. ‘That gag’s not agreeing with him. You think we should take it out?’ he suggests to his comrade.

 The other man snorts harshly. ‘He can’t be trusted to keep his fucking mouth shut. He’ll get over it,’ he says scornfully, testing the shackles again none too gently. ‘Stop fighting it, you stupid fuck, you’re making yourself worse.’

‘If he chokes himself, there’ll be no end of paperwork,’ Ronsard grumbles, and the other man laughs harshly.

Aramis just wheezes: quick staccato breaths, windpipe _burning_ now. They move away, scuffing their boots on the cobbles.

He tries to lift his eyes, doesn’t want to be unprepared when they start the flogging. There’s some heated discussion going on, the Captain’s voice and Porthos’ both raised in frustration; whoever’s answering them is doing so too quietly and calmly for their voice to carry, which means it must be the Cardinal.

He hauls his head up, tries to crane his neck around, still half-convinced if he can catch the captain’s eye again – or better, Porthos’ eye; if anyone could tell something’s wrong with Aramis from just the barest look, it’d be him – he might escape this before whatever substance is in his mouth makes its insidious way into his blood and to his heart.

Someone grabs him by the back of the neck so they can slice through the back of his shirt with a dagger. He jolts more in shock than fear – it’s _cold_ – and in any other circumstances he’d explode with indignation and make the bastard pay for a replacement.

As soon as he’s released he whips his neck around again, breath still coming in wheezes. Porthos is frowning at him; Aramis just needs a moment for him to catch on –

There’s a commotion in the entrance, some new disturbance. Porthos looks round, startled, someone shoves their way into the courtyard, and then d’Artagnan’s voice bellows _‘Stop!’_

-/-

 

D’Artagnan ran ahead of them with the papers; they follow as quickly as they can. Madame Boursay is at length persuaded to pass her son to Athos so that they can all move more quickly – her joints are stiff from captivity and she’s pale, but her expression is fierce. Constance keeps a hand on her arm and strides along at her side. 

They’re only two minutes behind d’Artagnan when they arrive in the Chatelet courtyard. Athos passes the child to Constance and marches up to the guards at the entrance. ‘We have important news for his Eminence,’ he says carelessly to the sentry without breaking stride; Constance stays close behind, shepherding Madame Boursay in front of her. 

D’Artagnan is standing between Treville and the Cardinal; at the sight of them he spins around with a stabbing gesture. ‘Here! His wife and son –‘ 

‘I’ve never seen this woman in my life before,’ Auverne snaps, too fast, too loud – Constance glances at him, her lip curling in disgust. Porthos is standing close to him, intimidating despite the crutch he’s leaning on, blocking his exit.

The Cardinal glares, looking equally furious with all of them. ‘You will, in that case, have an explanation for these letters?’

 Auverne splutters, and though he’s trying to hide it under a display of fury, he’s clearly fumbling for a lie.

Treville, impatient, suggests ‘Can we at least release Aramis until this is settled?’ 

Richelieu starts to respond, but Constance doesn’t listen – she turns again to the centre of the courtyard, where Aramis is standing with his back bared – unmarked, at least they were in time to prevent injury – but she can see him shaking from _here_.

Athos glances sideways at the spectacle in the middle of the courtyard and gestures with his mouth tight for d’Artagnan and Constance to approach. He stands straight-backed and watches the Cardinal read the papers, keeping one eye on Auverne in case he looks like he’s going to bolt. Porthos and Treville have moved subtly to cover his exits; the man himself looks agitated though he’s trying hard not to show it.

She nudges Madame Boursay towards Athos, and carefully transfers the infant back into his mother’s arms, then closes her hand around one of the pistols in her skirt pocket before hurrying across the courtyard.

Aramis has his head slumped between his hunched shoulders, his forehead against his bound arms and back heaving. She nudges d’Artagnan, who pulls a pistol on the guard standing in their way, though he looks like he doesn’t particularly care to stop them, and Constance elbows her way past him. Closer, she can see that Aramis is gagged with some scrap of fabric and it makes her stomach crawl. More than that, he looks like he’s having trouble breathing around it, his whole throat convulsing on every breath. She reaches up to take it off, clumsy fingers tugging at the knot at the back of his neck under his hair.

‘You’re alright,’ she murmurs, resting her free hand on his chest – she can feel the shudders rattling his ribcage. ‘You’re – you’re going to be alright; it’s over now. God, I’m so sorry, I’m…’

The fact that he doesn’t open his eyes and try to reassure her shakes her worse than the sorry state he’s in. She eases the gag from between his teeth and throws it aside in disgust.

‘Aramis? You’ve got to open your eyes now, darling, come on…’

He just shivers, and goes on breathing like he’s about to shudder apart. Constance squeezes his elbow and reels around to search for the others – Athos and Treville are engaged in some sort of intense discussion with the Cardinal, and Porthos has Auverne boxed in though he’s got one eye on Constance and Aramis across the courtyard. Behind her, d’Artagnan leans to look past the guard he’s holding at gunpoint.

 ‘Constance, is he alright?’ 

She frowns. ‘No. We need to get him off there.’ She glances at the shackles on his wrists. ‘Keys,’ she says, and draws the pistol from the pocket of her skirt, still holding onto Aramis with the other hand. ‘Keys, now,’ she says, aiming her pistol at the Red Guard’s kneecap.

‘He hasn’t been pardoned yet,’ the guard mumbles, looking over awkwardly at Auverne.

Constance pulls the hammer back and raises her eyebrows. ‘Keys.’

He sighs and hands them over, casting an uncertain look at the Cardinal. Constance drops the pistol immediately and turns back to Aramis. ‘D’Artagnan, come and help me.’

D’Artagnan hesitates a moment worrying about what to do with the guard, and she hears a thump that implies he found a speedy, violent solution. She fits the keys into the shackles and gets them to release just as d’Artagnan grabs Aramis by the other arm. His arms and his head drop once he’s no longer shackled and Constance grabs him in alarm, ducking under his arm.

 ‘Has he passed out?’ d’Artagnan gasps, his gaze straying wide-eyed to Aramis’ back, frowning at the way he’s shuddering in the cold.

‘He’s – I’m not sure, I think he’s in shock. Aramis?’ She gets her other hand to his jaw and tilts his face towards her. He’s still got his eyes closed, but he’s so tense and agitated she doesn’t think he _can_ be unconscious. The way he’s breathing is making her intuition twitch, that can’t be right or normal, he must be exhausted and starving and shaken but why would it make him _breathe_ like that?

‘Let’s get him to a seat,’ d’Artagnan says anxiously, shuffling over for the wooden bench against the wall. They get him to sit, and d’Artagnan props him upright while Constance kneels in front of him, holding his face and staring up at him and trying not to cry.

‘He’s not breathing right, d’Artagnan, I don’t know what to do.’

D’Artagnan looks as lost as she feels. He fumbles his doublet off, and lays it over Aramis’ back where his ruined shirt gapes open.

She smiles at him faintly, but a weak mutter draws her attention back before she can say anything. ‘Aramis? Open your eyes, now, come on…’

He squints his eyes open just a crack, but the rattle in his chest has got worse. With some difficulty he focuses on her and makes a grating sound in his throat as he tries to speak.

‘It’s alright, it’s alright we’re here, it’s over, you’ve got to calm down.’

D’Artagnan, still looking frantic, is stroking his shoulder absently with his thumb and frowning at his heaving back. ‘Where are the others?’ he mutters, looking across the courtyard for Athos and Porthos and the Captain. Madame Boursay is hunched behind the Captain with her child clamped close to her chest.

Aramis rasps, ‘Constance,’ like he needs her attention urgently and she tightens her grip on his face, pushing his hair back.

‘I’m here; I’m here. D’Artagnan too, everyone’s fine.’

 The sound he makes is barely audible and she can’t make out the words. ‘What’s that? I can’t…’

She leans closer, but Aramis’ hoarse mumbling doesn’t resolve itself into any comprehensible form. She strokes his hair helplessly, exchanging a glance with d’Artagnan.

Aramis slumps suddenly and they both have to scramble to prop him up. D’Artagnan grips Aramis by both shoulders, but he’s out, unconscious. Constance’s shout of alarm is loud enough to catch the attention of the others, and the dispute between Treville, Richelieu and Auverne falters.

 ‘Aramis?’ Treville’s voice calls. 

‘Something’s wrong with him,’ d’Artagnan says, still holding him more-or-less upright. The musketeers exchange looks; Athos shifts position so that he’s got Auverne in his sights and Porthos limps over to join them.

‘What’s he -?’ Porthos starts as he hobbles closer, then ‘Aramis?’ 

‘He’s passed out,’ Constance croaks. ‘He’s – unwell, perhaps he caught an infection, or he’s in shock – I don’t know, he was breathing wrong – Porthos…’

Porthos’ jaw goes tight, but he doesn’t wince at the way his still-healing leg must burn as he stoops, his face close to his unconscious comrade’s. ‘Aramis. C’mon.’

Aramis doesn’t react, and Porthos’ face tightens horribly around the eyes; God, of all people in perhaps the whole world, Constance can’t watch _Porthos_ cry. He wrinkles his nose, thumb brushing at Aramis’ mouth. 

‘He smells off,’ Porthos grunts suddenly, frowning. He throws a glance over his shoulder to the others, who are quieter now, watching. ‘Did he take something – laudanum? No, wait…’

Treville moves closer. ‘I spoke to him this morning; he was exhausted, but not…’

‘There’s something on his breath, a drug or…’

Distantly, Constance hears Auverne clear his throat and announce, ‘If this is to be delayed, I will return to my…’

 ‘You’ll go nowhere, Monsieur,’ snaps the Cardinal.

‘He’d had nothing to eat – I found some bread for him…’ the Captain is saying to Porthos.

 ‘Are you saying he’s been drugged?’ d’Artagnan asks, almost bouncing on his feet with nervous impatience.

 Treville’s face abruptly goes completely flat; he turns and strides to the pole in the centre of the courtyard and returns with something in his hand, which he tosses to Porthos. Porthos frowns and then carefully sniffs at it. He recoils and curses violently.

‘I should have known,’ says Treville viciously under his breath.

‘We need an emetic,’ Porthos orders. ‘D’Artagnan, you’ll have to help me with him.’

They haul Aramis upright to sag limply between them. Treville turns to the nearest Red Guard and demands mustard and castor oil. The man hesitates, glancing to the Cardinal, who, to Constance’s surprise, snaps ‘Do as he says!’

 The man nods swiftly and runs after the musketeers.

 Treville picks up the rag Porthos discarded. Constance shakily gets to her feet as well, eyes on the doorway Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan have just disappeared through. She’d like to follow them, but she’ll be no use there, and she can’t leave Madame Boursay alone in the midst of what must be, to her, a baffling confrontation.

She’s never seen Treville so angry, almost shaking with rage. He raises an arm to point at Auverne and grates out ‘I’ll have this man charged for treason, apparently for bigamy, and now for attempted murder.’

‘Attempted murder? I’ve not seen the man since he was sentenced. This is absurd.’ Auverne makes a little abortive move towards the gate, and Athos steps again into his way, as coldly furious as his captain.

 ‘You have not yet provided a satisfactory explanation for these letters,’ Richelieu says calmly.

‘I want to know why you had one of my men poisoned,’ Treville growls.

‘That is not the matter at hand,’ says the Cardinal.

‘This is absurd,’ Auverne repeats.

There’s some commotion from inside, and d’Artagnan emerges. ‘The emetic worked, more or less. I’m going for the surgeon,’ he explains tersely, and darts past Athos at a run.

‘Whether or not you tried to have the musketeer killed, you have attempted to sell state secrets to Spain,’ Richelieu says steadily. 

Auverne, perhaps unconsciously, puts a hand on his own sword hilt. The weapon looks decorative and useless to Constance’s eye; if he takes on Athos and Treville with that, he’ll regret it quickly. A savage part of her hopes that he’ll try.

‘Presumably you hid your first marriage on the grounds that a match with a Comtesse would gain you better access to the King. And to myself,’ spits Richelieu.

‘I deny everything,’ Auverne snaps, but his intellect against Richelieu’s is as useless as his sword would be against Athos’.

‘When the Bonacieux woman claimed to know something about your wife, you feared she meant your first wife,’ Richelieu sneers, casting a distracted glance in the direction of Madame Boursay. Constance steps close to her and lays one hand very gently on her back.

‘This woman is not my wife,’ Auverne insists.

‘Then is this not your son, Antoine?’ the woman says softly, drawing startled glances from everyone present.

‘Be silent!’ he snarls, and she tips her chin up stubbornly.

‘I have in custody one of the men he sent after Madame Bonacieux,’ Treville says sharply, furious eyes still on Auverne. ‘He was willing to commit murder to cover this up. I should have known.’

His jaw is tight with what looks like _guilt_ as much as anger. Athos says, ‘He must have an ally in the Red Guard.’

The Cardinal seems startled for the first time. ‘What?’

‘Unless it was on your orders that my comrade was poisoned, Your Eminence?’ Athos amends.

Richelieu sneers at him.

Constance shudders. ‘The Red Guard…’ she breathes, suspiciously scanning the faces of those flanking the Cardinal, and the other guard stirring where d’Artagnan knocked him out.

 The Red Guard hate Aramis. She tries not to tighten her grip on Madame Boursay’s shoulder. Do they hate him enough to attempt murder?

 


	10. Comrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of poison, and justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay on this chapter and for not having replied to comments - real life ran away with me for a while there. I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this story!

The morning wears on; Constance is caught in the middle of their disputes feeling like she’s being buffeted by a storm. Auverne rages, Richelieu seethes, Treville glowers, Athos is icily furious. They’re at a stalemate because the musketeers don’t trust the Red Guard to carry messages to Lucille and to the king, and they refuse to leave Constance, Madame Boursay or – particularly – Aramis – in the care of the Red Guard given that at least one of their number must be in Auverne’s pay.

D’Artagnan returns with a physician and gives Constance an anxious glance as he leads him quickly across the courtyard and into the Chatelet. She hopes they haven’t taken Aramis back to a cell. She hopes – wretchedly, she just hopes, and prays, and tries to be what use she can while her mind is somewhere else.

Auverne is still refusing to acknowledge his wife; spluttering impotent fury at the Cardinal. It would be very satisfying to watch if Constance felt remotely able to concentrate just now; with every word he is making Richelieu angrier and the only reason he hasn’t already been arrested is because Richelieu won’t let the musketeers do it and Treville won’t let the Red Guard do it.

It’s some time later when the physician re-emerges alone and speaks quietly to Treville. Athos looks like he’s barely restraining himself from demanding an explanation while the captain’s face stays grimly impassive and the doctor shrugs calmly, buckling his satchel already.

Athos reaches to stop the man on his way out, but the captain beckons him over, repeating the physician’s verdict loud enough for Constance to hear.

‘He’s sleeping. They did the right thing to purge the poison as soon as possible, but there’s no way of knowing if it was soon enough. The physician says if he’s still alive tomorrow morning he should recover.’

Constance feels herself sway. Athos’ face has drained of all colour and his lips soundlessly form the word, _‘if…_ ’

Treville’s jaw tightens very slightly. ‘Porthos will stay with him. You can join them once this is settled, but for now…’

 Athos nods; faint lines appear at the corners of his eyes as though he’s in pain.

 It takes hours. Under escort, they troop to Auverne’s house; Constance hovers close to Madame Boursay and her child as she cowers in appalled wonder at the grandeur of the residence. The maid gives a confused, frightened look from Constance to Auverne and gapes at the sight of the Cardinal; she hurries upstairs to fetch her mistress, her hands shaking.

Lucille comes down with her hair loose, pale as a ghost. Constance moves towards her hesitantly, and when she doesn’t shrink back Constance reaches to gently take hold of her arm.

‘What is this?’ she rasps, wide eyes skittering over the guards flanking her husband.

 ‘We should speak in the parlour,’ Constance says, because she doesn’t think Lucille will be able to process anything other than fear with Auverne glaring at her like that.

Once they’re safely sequestered in the opulent parlour, Treville and Athos hanging back and allowing Constance to take the lead, she takes a deep breath.

 ‘Lucille,’ she says, ‘this woman is Madame Boursay. She –‘

 ‘Boursay?’ Lucille says, that old sharp edge coming into her voice. Madame Boursay stares at her with hard, wary eyes and says nothing.

‘Yes,’ Constance says carefully. ‘You were right about your husband’s treacherous activities. The thing is, though – it seems that he was never _really_ your husband at all.’

Lucille grips the edge of a chaise longue with white fingers. In the doorway, Athos quietly demands a pitcher of wine for the Comtesse from the hovering maidservant.

Eventually, Auverne is carted off to the Bastille – it sickens Constance to see him treated like a gentleman prisoner, after the conditions they were holding Aramis in: Athos sees her expression and murmurs that his comfortable cell will do him no good when his head’s taken for treason. His fate is sealed some days later when a fuming Richelieu manages to expose the traitor in his own ranks: the sergeant who interrupted them when they visited Aramis in the Chatelet; Constance now realises, also the one whose interjections during the mockery of a trial helped to escalate the case against him.

 In the first shocked hours, Lucille doesn’t look particularly relieved to be free of her husband, but she also doesn’t look particularly alarmed to meet his other wife. She’s so pale and fragile at this point that Constance isn’t sure she’s even comprehending much of what’s going on.

Constance does her best to reassure her and to support Madame Boursay; she stays behind to take care of them both with the help of Lucille’s sulky maidservant even after Athos and Treville have left: Athos to supervise the escort taking Auverne to the Bastille and then to Aramis’ bedside, she’s certain; Treville to explain this bizarre outcome to the king.

Anxiety makes Constance irritable; she struggles to stay patient with Madame Boursay’s solemn fury and Lucille’s frantic incomprehension. Towards evening she manages to persuade the maid to prepare rooms for Madame Boursay and the child, and she puts Lucille to bed herself. Though they may find it awkward to be left to one another; the two wives of a dangerous criminal, Constance is sure the best thing for both of them just now is sleep. And, she thinks a little guiltily, they do have plenty in common.

Auverne is in custody, and after all she is still armed, so she feels little apprehension taking to the streets by herself. She’s not sure of the way to the Chatelet from here, so she makes for the Garrison. It’s nearer, and someone there, surely, will have news.

 She runs into d’Artagnan in the yard, and is alarmed at the sight of him.

‘You’re here – why are you -?’

‘We brought Aramis back. We thought – he’d prefer his own room.’ He scratches the hair back off his face in an agitated gesture.

‘Is he -?’

‘No change,’ he says, too quickly.

‘That’s – good, I suppose,’ Constance murmurs, and then winces at her own clumsiness. She shivers in the cool evening air, and then can’t seem to stop.

 D’Artagnan looks a little unsteady himself as he comes closer to her and grips her hard by both arms. She screws her face up, feels the day’s weariness and horror break over her like a wave 

‘It’s – it’s alright,’ d’Artagnan tells her. ‘It will be alright.’

‘It’s not,’ she mumbles. ‘It’s a mess, and it’s my fault. I was so –‘

He shushes her a little desperately, but she shakes her head. Then she has to stop speaking for a moment to gasp past the lump in her throat. 

‘I was so arrogant, d’Artagnan. I thought because I escaped from Jacques when you helped me, I thought – we should be able to do that for anyone.’

 ‘You did help her,’ d’Artagnan says, stroking her arm.

 ‘I nearly got Aramis –‘

‘No.’ He ducks his head to catch her eye, his gaze dark and sincere, his expression painfully soft. ‘Nobody blames you.’

‘Perhaps they should,’ Constance chokes before she can stop herself. D’Artagnan wraps his arms around her, one hand gentle on the back of her head, stroking her hair. For several moments, her throat is too raw for speech. At last, she manages to take a reasonably steady breath, and lifts her face from d’Artagnan’s shirt front 

‘The surgeon said – if –‘

 ‘He doesn’t know Aramis,’ d’Artagnan says firmly. ‘Come on.’ He tugs her gently toward the stairs, and she resists, scrubbing at her cheeks. 

‘I can’t – like this –‘

He gives her a sceptical look and leads her the now-familiar route up the stairs and along the gallery. 

When d’Artagnan pushes the door open, Athos picks his head up from where it is hanging into his hands. Porthos scarcely moves, his back to the door on the chair beside the bed. Aramis is still; his skin looks waxy in the dusk and the light of a single candle.

‘Constance,’ Athos says, his voice rough. ‘How is the Comtesse? And Madame Boursay?’

 ‘Both – sleeping,’ she says, hearing the unevenness in her own voice. She twists her hands in front of her. ‘I wanted – I’m _so sorry_ …’

‘Tell us this was your fault one more time, Constance, and I’ll…’ D’Artagnan trails off because he clearly can’t think of an appropriate threat, and his stern expression lapses into forlorn affection. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was all Auverne.’

‘And the Red Guards’ prejudice didn’t help matters, either,’ Athos puts in, softly.

She closes her mouth obediently, but she’ll need Aramis to tell her so himself before she can really believe that this wasn’t her fault.

They sit vigil all night. Nobody sleeps, and they scarcely talk, and none of them even suggests leaving. If he’s still alive by morning, the surgeon said. If.

 Aramis lies like a corpse, but he’s still breathing. Once or twice his breath catches ragged in his throat and all of them tense immediately, excruciatingly aware of his every twitch. 

Dawn comes, and he hasn’t woken, but he also hasn’t died. They are afraid to relax too much. Athos goes to report to the Captain, and returns with the news that the King found the story of Auverne’s secret wife extremely amusing; though he did eventually stop laughing long enough for Treville to explain the attempt to sell secrets to Spain, and took that rather more seriously. D’Artagnan goes for the surgeon again and is sent back alone; the man has too many other patients to return if there’s been no change, and if Aramis is still living he has a good chance of recovery; there’s nothing to do for him now but wait. Porthos trickles cool water down Aramis’ throat regularly, handling him as tenderly as a newborn. Constance sits in a daze, almost catatonic with exhaustion.

The sun is high in the sky when he stirs. There’s a weak cough from the bed, and Constance freezes again; every strained breath seems like it could too easily be his last. But this time it’s followed by a soft mumble and a sharper breath, and Porthos leans forward over Aramis, obscuring him from view.

‘S’alright, you’re alright…’

Constance can’t make out the reply; Aramis’ voice barely more than a breath.

‘Everyone’s here, they’re all fine,’ Porthos says softly. Aramis’ fingers curl weakly around Porthos’ and then settle again. ‘Just sleep. You’re gonna be fine.’

 When Porthos looks up – looks up properly for the first time all night – his whole posture has eased; he looks at Athos and sighs out his breath. Athos echoes him, rubbing his hand across his face as if trying to wake himself up. Constance feels the relief as a wave; it makes her so lightheaded she almost faints where she sits; the air has thinned in the room with the musketeers’ cautious gratitude.

 Eventually she goes back to the palace to change her clothes and snatch a few hours sleep. She updates the queen as quickly as she possibly can without breaching propriety; luckily Anne herself seems most anxious for more news of Aramis’ health and practically chases her out so that she can return to the Garrison. When she arrives, Aramis is asleep again, though Porthos tells her that he woke earlier and ate some of Serge’s thin broth and didn’t throw it up again, so they’re reasonably optimistic.

‘How does he deal with it, all the time?’ d’Artagnan is saying quietly when she comes in. ‘I’d have killed twenty Red Guards by now, if it were me…’

Athos raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I daresay you would have,’ he says quietly. ‘It wasn’t always this bad. This _consistent_ anyway.’

‘They’ll leave him alone now,’ Porthos says, in the firm tone which means he will personally see to it that they do. Athos looks doubtful, and there’s a brief silence in which all of them think about how anti-Spanish sentiment has got worse, and isn’t showing signs of getting any better.

‘…if there’s a war,’ Constance whispers.

‘He’ll do his duty,’ Athos says. ‘He won’t like it, but he will.’

Constance nods, and feels unaccountably tearful. She looks out of the window, letting the glare sear her eyes, as she says quietly, ‘He told me it would have upset his mother. All this…’ 

She imagines the events of the last few days would have upset Aramis’ mother much more than mere prejudice. Constance is halfway to imagining a confrontation with an unknown dead Spanish woman, condemning what misfortune Constance’s friendship has brought to her son in that strange, beautiful staccato language.

‘His mum…’ Porthos murmurs, all but misty-eyed as he looks at the man in the bed. ‘Fine woman, his mum.’

‘You met her?’ d’Artagnan asks, and Constance is surprised, too. All three of them – all four of them, actually – keep their pasts pretty quiet and separate from their soldiering.

‘She came to visit once. He gets his looks from her,’ Porthos says fondly.

‘And his temper,’ Athos adds quietly.

‘That too,’ Porthos concedes, grinning.

‘He’s…’ she trails off, looking down at the patient, whose expression is relaxed in sleep.

 ‘He’s French,’ Porthos supplies, ‘but he’d like to live in a world where he could be Spanish as well.’

 

 

*

 

Constance doesn’t go to Auverne’s execution ten days later. The traitorous Red Guard and the man hired to attack Constance have already gone to the gallows by that stage, but Auverne’s position entitles him to the dubious honour of beheading.

She can’t say she didn’t consider attending, but as it happens she receives a conflicting invitation. She takes an armed escort with her.

Constance and Aramis stand on the steps of the Auverne mansion in watery afternoon sunlight. He still looks a bit pale, cheeks a little too hollow, but his step is light enough to belie the fact that he’s been so ill. Constance knocks and steels herself for another encounter with the maidservant who has so often made her sullen dislike of Constance very clear. When the door swings open, it doesn’t reveal the face she’s expecting, and it takes her a moment to recognise the woman offering her a hesitant smile.

‘Oriane?’ calls a voice from the hallway. ‘Is that them?’ Constance recognises Lucille’s voice first – calmer than she’s ever heard it but still with that sharp edge to it – before she looks back at “Oriane” and recognises Madame Boursay. She blinks, noting that the other woman has put on weight, is a far more healthy colour, and – perhaps the main reason Constance found her unrecognisable – is still smiling, a little uncertain, but genuine. 

Lucille appears beside her in a flowing gown, and takes Constance’s hand. ‘Constance, thank you for coming. And Monsieur Aramis. I have been so anxious to thank you both for everything you’ve done. Please come inside.’

Constance glances sideways at Aramis, who looks uncharacteristically nervous, so she takes his arm before stepping in. The others, by now, have explained all the events that he missed, but it’s one thing to learn that your enemy had two wives and quite another to see them, standing side by side in the doorway like a pair of salon hostesses. 

‘Monsieur, I am so terribly sorry for everything you have suffered,’ Lucille says as she ushers them in, her natural awkwardness, here on her own territory, manifesting as imperiousness just as it had when Constance first met her. Aramis recovers his gallantry a little and stoops to kiss her hand, murmuring assurances. He turns and offers an equally elegant bow to Oriane, who flaps her hands at him, embarrassed, less used to courtly manners.

‘I apologise for the unorthodox invitation,’ Lucille says, beckoning them along the hall towards the parlour. ‘We have been hard at work, you see, and I wanted the two of you to see it first.’

The parlour looks drastically different from the last time Constance saw it. Where it had been overstuffed with rich furniture, it is now relatively stark, though the elegance of Lucille’s taste is still evident. In place of the chaise longues and mirrors and ornamental pedestals, the large room now houses several long tables and a mismatched collection of wooden chairs. In one corner, a small child Constance recognises as Oriane’s son is sitting on the floor with another, older woman, playing with some brightly painted blocks. 

‘This is Aline. She used to take in laundry from all the houses in this area, but her business passed to her husband’s brother when he died. Oriane happened to speak to her in the street nearby, and she has agreed to join our venture,’ Lucille explains. Aline glances up, nods uncertainly to Constance, and turns her attention back to the child.

‘Venture?’ Constance says, sharing a glance with Aramis, who shrugs. 

Lucille smiles knowingly; it is clear she is enjoying herself. ‘Really it was your venture first, Constance. We could never have thought of it without you.’

The only ‘venture’ Constance has ever been involved in is her husband’s drapery business, and somehow she can’t imagine ethereal Lucille shaking out reams of heavy cloth.

Lucille takes Constance’s hand and sits beside her at one of the tables. ‘Oriane and I – and yourself, and Aline there – are not the only women in Paris to have been left in a difficult situation by the actions of our husbands. I am fortunate enough – with the queen’s advocacy – that my fortune will remain in my own hands now that I am – for want of a better word – widowed.’ 

Constance blinks hard in an effort to keep her face neutral – Auverne’s execution has presumably already taken place; if not, it will be very shortly, and Lucille’s bluntness startles her. She can see that Aramis is taken aback as well, but Oriane takes it in her stride, scarcely looking up from the side table, where she is pouring some light-coloured wine into five glasses.

‘I want to do something for other women who are not so fortunate in their friends as I was,’ Lucille says, nodding courteously to Aramis before she looks back to Constance. ‘You see, it was something I learned from you.’

Constance feels her face heating, and doesn’t quite know what to say.

‘You offer them shelter?’ Aramis says, his voice a little rough.

 Lucille smiles. ‘I have such a large house. It seems silly not to use it. We would like to offer training in crafts as well, in due course. The queen has been very supportive, but in all honesty, I have very little experience with such things. Oriane and Aline have been invaluable. And, Constance…’

 Constance looks up, a little overwhelmed.

 ‘…we had hoped you might join us from time to time. I know you have duties at the palace, and elsewhere. But I know no one better to teach dressmaking than you, and as I say – really this was your idea first.’

 She blinks, and blinks again. She looks briefly to Aramis, hoping to share her utter bafflement with him, but he’s looking around the space with a faint smile of understanding, as though all this makes perfect sense to him.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Constance says eventually, since no other words come to mind.

Lucille smiles her sharp smile. ‘You don’t have to answer right away,’ she allows. ‘But I hope you will at least join us in a toast to our success.’

Lucille helps Oriane to pass the wine around to all of them, even the old washerwoman Aline, though her glass is barely half full. ‘M’not used to wine,’ she confides to Constance in an undertone, her accent a striking contrast with Lucille’s aristocratic tones.

Whatever Lucille says, this is far more than Constance could have dreamed of. It will be a struggle, she knows already. The queen’s intervention cannot _entirely_ protect Lucille and Oriane from gossip, and the audacity of what they intend to do will attract malicious talk as well. A joint venture between a Comtesse and a tradeswoman is, so far as Constance knows, entirely unheard of. She herself is intimately familiar with the cruelty directed at women whose lives have the audacity to be unconventional. In the wake of recent events, her instinct is to retreat to a more socially acceptable position: being bold and not fitting into her assigned role nearly cost Constance so much, and nearly brought ruin to Aramis (though, predictably, he has refused to listen to apologies, insisting that she did him no wrong). It would have been a comfort to duck her head below the parapet and be sure that nothing of the kind could happen again.

The trouble is, Constance has enough self-knowledge to understand that she never would be able to play meek and mild for very long. Today, though she sees the slight hollows to Aramis’ cheeks and the prickly fragility of Lucille’s calm, the nervousness of Oriane’s smile; though they must all be aware that, somewhere across Paris, a man who would have seen them all dead for his ends is meeting an unspeakable fate – despite all that, she can’t quite resist the hopefulness of Lucille’s plan. She looks down into her wine, and its brightness reflects hope back to her.

 


	11. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This missing scene between Porthos and Aramis in Chapter 10 has been sitting on my hard drive for a while. It's too small to post separately, but I thought I'd tag it on here as a coda for anyone who likes h/c fluff and sleepy musketeers.

The next time Aramis wakes, he screws his eyes tighter before trying to open them, and Porthos has already reached for the pitcher of water by the time he makes a soft, unhappy noise.

‘S’alright, Aramis,’ he murmurs, not really expecting any more lucidity than last time. ‘Everyone’s fine,’ he adds anyway. 

Aramis manages a hoarse grunt and flails one arm out of the tangle of blankets to reach for the cup. Porthos ignores it, curls one hand round the back of his neck and tips the cup slowly for him to sip at. His skin is warm and a little damp, a significant improvement on the clammy quality it had last night; his colour is still pretty bad though.

‘What – mm.’ Aramis clears his throat, tries again. ‘What happened?’

‘Long story. I’ll tell you when you can sit up to hear it.’

Naturally, Aramis takes this as an invitation to try to sit up. Porthos is fairly confident he’s going to win this one, and any other day he’d sit back and raise his eyebrows and watch him struggle, but the last few days have scraped him raw, and he’s overcome with tenderness despite himself.

‘You idiot,’ he mutters, cradling Aramis’ upper back so he can prop him up a bit on a rolled up blanket.

‘You’re alright – your leg?’ Aramis croaks.

 He huffs an exasperated breath, his face caught in a painful indecision whether to smile or cry. ‘Yeah. It’s fine. My _leg_ , fucking hell. You remember what happened to _you_?’

Aramis ‘mm’s again noncommittally, squinting his eyes like his head aches. ‘Constance alright?’ he says.

‘Yeah, you just missed her. She went back to the palace to sleep. _She’s_ fine, and _I’m_ fine, and d’Artagnan stubbed his toe this morning but is otherwise fine, and Athos is asleep, over there.’ 

Athos, it turns out, is not entirely asleep, because he emits a grumble of vague agreement before burying his face deeper into the pillows on the other cot.

‘…alright,’ Aramis mumbles, either too drowsy to pick up on the sarcasm or too used to it to bother responding.

‘You going back to sleep, or you going to eat something?’ Porthos says, tapping him gently on the chest.

‘I’m…’ he frowns and tilts his head to blink slowly in the direction of Athos. ‘Have I been asleep long?’

‘Too bloody long,’ Porthos says, and his voice completely fails him on the last word so he has to squeeze his eyes closed for a moment to compose himself. When he opens them again, Aramis looks stricken.

 ‘I’m alright,’ he says, all soft and sleep-mussed; Porthos is so exhausted from grief and worry that he wants to cry at the sight of him. Aramis pats clumsily at his hands. ‘Porthos, shh, I’m fine,’ he says.

Porthos lets himself wilt, just for a moment, because there’s nobody to see but Athos and Aramis and they’ve seen worse. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he mumbles, and Aramis croons some reassuring nonsense in response while he pulls himself together. Eventually, he sniffs and sits up, scrubbing his face dry with his knuckles. Once he’s sure he can keep his composure, he turns a stern look on Aramis. ‘If I go and get food for you, you got to stay awake and eat it, alright?’

Aramis’ mouth curls up at one side under his moustache and he mutters ‘Anything for you, Porthos,’ but his eyelids are already drooping. 

The yard is quiet, but Serge is in the kitchens and he perks up at the sight of Porthos as if he’s been waiting for him.

‘How’s the patient?’ he says, and ladles some sort of savoury broth into a mug.

‘Better, looks like,’ Porthos says. His voice sounds wrecked, and Serge gives him a concerned look, but then he nods and smiles.

‘Good news. Wonderful news. Tell him I expect to see him on his feet by tomorrow.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ Porthos says, warm with gratitude.

Aramis is dozing when he gets back, but rouses at the clatter of the door latch. He still looks pale, and he doesn’t look as enthusiastic at the smell of food as someone ought who has eaten almost nothing in three days, but he accepts the broth obediently enough. He’s weak enough that Porthos has to steady his hands as he drinks, in tiny hesitant sips with pauses to breathe carefully around the nausea he obviously still feels. He doesn’t complain or push it away, though. Porthos takes pity on him two thirds of the way through the cup, when he has to stop and take a few slow breaths, eyes closed and one hand clutched to his belly.

‘Alright. We’ll maybe try some more later.’ 

Aramis lets his head fall back in obvious relief. It’s worrying that he’s got no appetite, but given recent events, perhaps not all that surprising. The physician didn’t have much advice beyond ‘he may or may not survive,’ so Porthos is mostly relying on common sense and recollections of Aramis’ own methods for dealing with sick comrades. Keep them warm, make them eat, drink and sleep, look out for fever and distraction.

Aramis is still lucid, more or less, but he looks exhausted. Probably sleep is the best thing, though after the long, terrible night, the last thing Porthos wants to do is watch him sleep again. It makes his soul ache something fierce, to match the building ache in his limbs.

A hand clutches suddenly at the front of his shirt and he looks down to see that Aramis’ eyes have snapped open again.

‘I – Auverne. Did…’ He pauses, frowns. 

‘What?’

‘Did he really have two wives?’ Aramis mumbles vaguely, forehead creased in disbelief. 

‘You heard that, huh? Yeah, he did. He’s in the Bastille now though.’

 ‘…two?’ 

‘It’s kind of a long story. I’m not telling you now, you’ll fall asleep in the middle.’

Behind him, Athos groans and rolls over. Aramis is still resisting sleep like a small child, eyelids blinking slowly.

 ‘They’re alright? Everyone’s…’

‘Everyone’s fine,’ Porthos says, hoarse as an eighty-year-old by now. The bed creaks behind him, and Athos drops a hand on his shoulder.

‘You should sleep, too,’ he says quietly.

 Porthos looks down. Aramis is out, the lines of confusion and nausea on his brow smoothed out in sleep.

‘Porthos,’ Athos says, very quiet but no less stern. ‘Sleep. I’ll watch him.’ 

‘He was up – he ate a bit, should’ve got him to eat more. He’s still…’

‘I know. I’ve got him.’ Athos shoves him gently in the direction of the other cot. Porthos complains a bit, but his body feels too unmanageably heavy now to put up any real resistance. He matches his breathing to Aramis’ slow quiet snores and lets the room fade out.


End file.
